


Dawning Delights

by Guardian Of The Lotus (DistantStorm)



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Consensus Drama, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Rated for Adults being Adults, The Dawning (Destiny), What if Destiny had a Hallmark Christmas Special: The Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 35,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21675163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/Guardian%20Of%20The%20Lotus
Summary: Hawthorne invites her newfound family in the Tower to experience a City-Style Dawning with the family that took her in years ago. The holiday is not without it’s charm, or aggravation, and certainly has plenty of surprises in store. A season-inspired, trope-tastic story about a family forged by something greater than blood, finding reasons to enjoy the season - and cherish each other.
Relationships: Amanda Holliday/Sloane, Devrim Kay/Marc, Suraya Hawthorne/Zavala
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	1. Prologue

Devrim receives a package on the last day of the Festival of the Lost. 

He opens the non-descript box carefully. The Guardian who had delivered it did so with a fond smile, knowing precisely what it was they’d been tasked with ferrying from the Last City. Inside is another box - he allows himself a little hum of delight, Marc always felt it so tacky just to throw a ton of presents into a box and tape it up - wrapped with rich maroon crafting paper, instead of the glossy, commercialized patterned wrap that is so vastly popular in the City. There is twining, a dark brown, tied together in a neat bow in the middle, and beneath that, a letter written on creamy paper that will stay in his pocket for the next week. He’s a sentimental man when it comes to his husband, what can he say? 

The smell of fresh tea assaults his senses the very moment he opens the wrapped box, lifting packing paper to see sachets and seeping materials. A new thermos is beside that, as too often he’s watched a thermos get disrupted by a guardian and either go flying from his window down to the ground below, or roll down the stairs and become too dented to close properly. It sticks with the dark red design, masculine and minimal. A note attached to the bottom of the thermos reads:

_I gave Suraya the same one. She was delighted you’d be twins (begrudgingly so, you know our girl), so make sure you tell her you’re using yours when she comes calling._

He laughs aloud at that. Quite right. It’s only been a few hours, but no doubt she’ll want to check in the very moment he’s managed to achieve a trance-like state of high concentration.

Beneath all that is a small vial of cologne (curious but not unwelcome), more grooming materials (Marc always knew when he was running low), and an out of place change of clothes.

Another note peeks out of the pocket of the button-up flannel’s pocket.

_If you read my letter first, you’d know that this is for when Zavala inevitably arranges for you to come home for the Dawning to further woo our child(and us!)._

_… if he hasn’t already._

Smart man, his Marc. Zavala had contacted him two weeks ago when Suraya had an engagement of some kind. He didn’t think Marc knew about that. The way Zavala spoke of it, it was supposed to be a surprise. Although, perhaps he was more surprised that the Commander was approaching him from a position sans authority. Of course he knew Suraya was involved with the Vanguard Commander (to what extent, he did not ask: they are adults and he certainly was not born yesterday). And of course he knew that it was not common knowledge or spoken about. Even Tyra only knew what she supposed through encounters on the comms or tidbits of gossip she heard from Clan-aligned guardians who’d seen both leaders at an event together. 

-/

**Two Weeks Earlier:**

They sit across from each other at an impasse. Both parties have their hands folded, resting on the table. In front of them each rests a demitasse cup, full of dark liquid. Around them, the restaurant is loud with the usual Sunday-morning rush. Whatever they’re discussing seems to be a stalemate, but it’s short-lived.

“You should have come to me for this… months ago,” Marc leans back in the booth, pinky up as he sips his expresso. He motions to the festival decorations. As a child, he began preparing for this particular holiday around the time the Guardians were celebrating the Crimson Days with Crucible-style murder. “Thankfully, I’m always prepared for a good dinner party, so it’s just figuring out seating arrangements and room assignments-”

Suraya dips her head, hunching her shoulders, looking at him in disbelief. “I’m not inviting everyone, Dad.”

“Why not? You’re the one preaching that none of them have ever had a real City-style Dawning. We should give it to them!”

They’re interrupted by the delivery of their brunch, at which Marc orders his second expresso and Hawthorne laughs and nods to the waitress as if she’s the parent here. “You’re assuming everyone wants to come.”

“Uh, of course they will. My food is infamous, my hosting skills unmatched-”

“You do know I work with Eva Levante, right?” She deadpans.

Matching her tone, Marc replies, “Yes, darling, I know. We’re inviting her too, even if she’ll decline and come after dinner. I know she spends the holiday with Tess and her family.”

They stare at each other for a moment between bites of their very delicious breakfast. Suraya’s eyes narrow in suspicion while Marc’s giga-watt smile seems to grow in intensity. “You’re already picking stationary for the invitations,” She accuses.

“Ooh, I can send those? I was just thinking about place-cards for the table but if you’re giving me creative license, I am _here_ for it.” He pushes up his sleeves. “But I will require a bi-weekly brunch as payment for my services. And for updates.” She tilts her head, clearly seeing through his ‘payment’ line of reasoning. Marc would do almost she asked, for nothing at all. Not that she would ever exploit him for it. “Invite whomever you want. Your relationship is common knowledge anyway-”

“Oh my Light!” The Clan Stewardess’ sharp tone makes someone nearby drop a fork. She’s not sure if she’s more embarrassed that she’s using a Guardian’s curse or that she’s nearly caused a scene. Quieter, she whispers, “Stop it. I mean, sure, most of them know but-” Mark smirks, “Ugh, you’re so embarrassing.”

Laughing, he says, “I missed this,” while reaching with his free hand to pat the top of hers, wrapped around her fork. “I’m revising my terms. Weekly brunches.” Suraya tilts her head, smirking wryly. She’d obviously expected nothing less and does not deny him outright. “Okay.” He steels himself. “You started this off with ‘surprise.’ How can I help?”

Suraya pulls out a notebook from her pack, set beside her on the bench. He levels her with a glance that she ducks her head at, flushing. She doesn’t shy away though, like she would have as a teen. It might not be swatches or color schemes but she’s not just his child, after all. “So far, the plan is...”

Marc grins, pride blooming in his chest as his adoptive daughter elaborates on the plan.

-/

Ducking inside from the dreary near-constant rainfall of Titan, Deputy Commander Soane steps through the damp halls to their command post, an open-air alcove relatively sheltered from the wind and storm. There’s a green light flickering on the screen. She clears out the remaining staff with a wave of her hand. All of them are done for the day as is. There are no night ops planned; The Hive has been battled back within reason for one day, and they have never won a war by being over-zealous. Not against an enemy like this.

She flicks the switch on the comms and a holo-projection of the person waiting for her appears before her. “Hawthorne.”

“Sloane.”

They spare each other a smile. “Is this a good time?” The Clan Stewardess asks, receiving a curt nod. “Good. Have you thought about my offer?”

“I don’t know how you’re going to pull this off,” Sloane says, sounding nervous. “If you tell him, he’ll never be able to keep it a secret.”

Hawthorne scoffs. “Oh, I’m not telling him.” She rolls her eyes. “She wouldn’t have to look at him and he’d be blabbing.”

Sloane laughs at that. “As long as you know. So how do we work around that? Even if we faked a blackout, I can’t justify it just because I want to come home for a few days. I don’t even have approval for shore-” There’s a ding, a tiny plink, a notification.

“That should be your leave approval from Ikora.”

“Ikora?”

The projection shorts for a second then reforms. “Of course,” Hawthorne chides. “How else do you go around Zavala without ruffling feathers?”

“She was okay with this?”

“Amanda needs the pick-me-up,” Hawthorne admits, and they both frown, just a little. “But it’s not like she’s the only one who misses you. I didn’t even finish asking before she signed it. For Ikora-”

“Yeah.” Sloane sighs. It’s easy to fall out of touch, between duty and distance. “I’ll call her.”

“She’d like that, I think.” Hawthorne shrugs, not pretending entirely to know. “Anway, she said to leave the details to her. I don’t question her methods. I think that’s her contribution for the Dawning.”

“Generous of her,” Sloane agrees, earnestly.

“Yeah. She’s been… different lately. Good different.”

The Deputy Commander straightens. It was well known - and recognized with thanks - that the Warlock Vanguard appeared to be moving onward and upward to face the road ahead. “I noticed. Eris-”

“I know.” Suraya rubs the back of her head through her hood. “I mean, not really. But I get the idea.”

“I don’t know that anyone really knows,” Sloane admits. The following silence drowns out the tinkling sound of rain on the plasteel above and the reality of the situation finally hits her. “I’m coming home for the Dawning,” She says, voice colored with awe.

Suraya smiles, it’s visible despite the static of the projection. “You are.”

“Thank you.” She can’t possibly put it all into words, but these will have to do.

The other woman doesn’t let her marinate in her emotions for long, clearly used to dealing with others much like herself. “It’s long overdue. Besides,” That tinge of sarcasm in her voice never disappears for long, “It’d be nice to finally meet you in person.”

They both laugh at that.


	2. Holiday Lights

This was always her busiest time of year. The Clans always had their largest number of squabbles - she felt like a babysitter at most of their council meetings - this time of year, and almost always seemed to find ways to faceoff with the Factions (more-so than usual). Half of her time was spent putting out fires, and the other half was spent on home visits and making herself available to the City’s most vulnerable. 

Then, of course, add in the grown-up babies that were the Guardians of the Tower (and their Clans), the Consensus, and the Farm’s day-to-day affairs, and Suraya barely has a moment to breathe.

Admittedly, she enjoys it. It's nice to be busy and even nicer to get off the wall and spend time in the concrete and plasteel jungle that was the Last City, still in the throes of rebuilding. Of course, her body protests at the end of a long day, but eight out of ten times she comes home to a heating pad, a mug of tea, and takeaway courtesy of an attentive partner.

He apologizes every time he gets stuck late, as though he’s some golden-age housewife who’s responsible for her well-being. She usually just eats dinner in bed - to his horror - and falls asleep tablet-in-hand with a message half-typed yelling at him that she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Most nights like those she wakes to Ghost light and gentle chiding - from the both of them (Zavala telling her she needs to take care of herself and his Ghost humming some rendition of the pot calling the kettle).

She’s getting soft, she knows it, and she finds she can't bring herself to care. They’ve had their ups and downs, come together and drifted apart since crossing paths more than two years ago. This is… different. A lived-in, domestic sort of luxury - adapted to practical use, of course - that she relishes. 

Hawthorne steps out of the elevator and back into the Tower proper, bag slung over her shoulder and a tin of cookies in her hand and stops.

Bright, warm lanterns lights the railings and ribbons are draped between the buildings. The sounds of bells being jingled by the wind is pleasant and soft, muffled by weather and mild snowfall.

It’s picturesque. Perfect.

Suraya takes a deep breath in and lets it go. She really does love this time of year.

“D’ya like it? Do ya, do ya?”

She hears Amanda before she sees her, and turns herself around in time to be tackled. 

“Eva got here this morning while you were out,” The Shipwright informs her, giddy. Amanda’s happiness is infectious and Suraya can’t help but squeeze her friend tight, smiling as she continues. “We waited for ya, Zavala got us reservations for dinner. He said we should be celebratin’ and I agree.” She jerks a thumb at some hanging banners. “I mean it’s practically done. Her frames are fast!”

“Apparently,” Suraya agrees. “Do I have time to shower or-”

“Take your time. I’m sure Zavala built in time for you to get ready, dear,” Eva interjects, approaching them with help from her cane. She’s got baubles under her other arm. They exchange a one-armed embrace, one (former) de-facto leader to another. Eva pats her hand when they part, eyes taking on a knowing look. “I’ve heard stories,” She says with a wry tone. “I apologize in advance. I can’t help but tease him. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him so… radiant.”

“Aww,” Amanda drawls as Suraya flushes. “Y’really do make a cute-”

“Enough.”

Both women turn back to see a very smug looking Zavala lingering a short distance away.

She takes one look at him in the new lighting and scoffs, “Ugh, he is radiant,” To the two of them, detangling herself from Amanda who’d lached back onto her arm, and Eva who still holds one of her hands. They laugh as she heads toward Zavala. “I’m going to get ready.”

“You’re sure you-” He’s silenced by a hand on his chest. 

“You’re not going out in armor, are you?”

“No, but I wanted to make sure you were okay with-” She smiles at him and he falls silent, much to the amusement of the duo standing behind her. “Fair enough." He directs his gaze over her shoulder. "We will meet you back here in about an hour.”

“We’ll go try to convince Ikora to join us,” Amanda informs them. “And when that fails, we’ll grab Shaxx.”

“We’re not covering his bar tab,” Hawthorne throws, over her shoulder, already heading back to their flat. “Tell him that when you invite him.”

Amanda’s giggling rings loud in the cool evening air. No doubt she remembers the last time they’d gone for a nice dinner and Shaxx had single-handedly drank more than the worth of the rest of the group’s food and drink combined.

-/ 

It’s not a secret. It’s never really been a secret. Work has always been work - professional, polite - and home has always been separate and their own personal business. Of course, they both bring their work home with them, so it wasn’t exactly that cut and dry, but what relations they had were never meant to be brought into the workplace.

On this, though, they were doomed from the start. Too many of their co-workers (a loose term, considering the myriad of organizational charts and the lines drawn across them to create a tangled picture of the Tower’s personnel infrastructure) were in the know, and even more-so, they’re both highly recognizable figures within the City’s core operations. 

To most, it seemed right. Appropriate. Two level-headed individuals, with similarly aligned goals - the success, safety, and greater good of the City - and a backstory that was unmatched. The criminal and the commander: there were horribly done movies (and possibly an all-Ghost theatrical production, they never had the courage to look) made about this.

“I don’t think we’re making it through this Dawning without the everyone knowing,” She says to him as she steps out of the shower, drying off with a towel while he pulls a sweater over his collared shirt. 

“I think the people would speculate no matter what we do,” He reasons, always level-headed in his thinking. “Even if we had no interaction. They suspected the Drifter was-”

“Oh, please tell me you’re going to bring that up at dinner,” She interrupts. “I want to see Eva yell at Shaxx sooo badly. He always gets so outraged.”

“Absolutely not. He’ll get us kicked out of the restaurant.”

She lets the towel drop to the floor and smirks as his gaze is drawn downward before padding into their adjoined bedroom and past him to their closet. “You do know people feel ‘blessed,’” She air-quotes, “When Shaxx pulls his theatrics in a public place, right?”

Zavala seems to materialize behind her, hand on her bare hip. He’s stealthy without his armor. “I’d like not to encourage him, if we can help it.”

“Mmm,” She agrees, and Zavala drops his nose and lips to her shoulder, dragging kisses across her skin. “You know we don’t have time for that,” She tells him, when he doesn’t back away afterward. “You’re the one who made the reservations.”

“You’re the one thinking about it,” He teases back. “If I thought we had time, I wouldn’t have dressed.”

She turns around and kisses him, hard. When his grip on her hip tightens, she draws back. “Now what?”

He might lick his lips, a bit swollen thanks to her nipping at them, but doesn’t take the bait. “Now,” He says, ushering her back to the closet, voice dipping low, “You’re going to get dressed and then we’re going to go to dinner with our colleagues and each drink one glass of wine short of being hungover tomorrow.”

“And after?” She queries, plucking out a sweater and scarf from her things.

He grins. “We’ll see.”

-/

The restaurant is dimly lit, but has beautiful festive lanterns strung all over. Most of them are plain, but a half dozen depict snowflakes and baubles relevant to the season. Eva comments on them to Zavala as Hawthorne orders wine for the table, ignoring Shaxx’s commentary on scotch. He’s not allowed to start before the appetizers; It’s wine or bust. 

When crusty, fresh-baked bread is brought out, Hawthorne eyes Zavala, whose Ghost appears in a delicate blink and transmats a stack of envelopes into her waiting hands. She distributes them amidst murmured commentary from the rest of the group, rolling her eyes.

“What’s this?” Amanda asks, when it’s clear everyone else has gotten their jibes about her and Zavala's relationship out of their system.

She’d gone over this in her head, and doing it once Eva arrived only seemed fair. Best to invite everyone as early as possible, Marc insisted on a head-count at least a week out, for the sake of his preparations. Still, she felt a bit exposed, offering up her life like this to them, even if they’d all become rather close over the last few years.

“Well, uh,” She laughs a little, out of her element. “I thought it might be nice for all of us to get together for the Dawning. I know everyone has their own traditions and plans, but my family always did a big feast growing up and we thought it might be time to expose you to a real City-style Dawning. Obviously,” She glances to Eva, “You’re welcome any time. We have enough room to-”

“Wait,” Amanda interrupts scanning the fancy invite. “Is this from Marc? You ain’t the kind to use fancy-shmancy gold-embossed anything.”

“He likes to host,” Suraya answers. “And Zavala and I were already planning on joining him for dinner-”

Shaxx leans forward before Amanda can chime in with a snarky comment about their relationship status. “I, for one, would be honored to join in your family's celebration. Let me know what I can bring.”

Hawthorne nods. He won’t be bringing anything if Marc has his way, but no sense in dealing with the specifics just yet.

Amanda squeals. “I’m so excited. We always did stuff in the Tower, but this is a big deal!” She looks at Zavala, green eyes gentle. “Obviously-”

“I know what you mean,” Zavala agrees. He’d had the experience Eva gave him, but a true Dawning in the way of the City’s denizens was never something he’d been able to pull off for his self-appointed ward. His knee nudges Suraya’s under the table. If she’d been nervous about it - and she had, he could see it on her face - it melts away in an instant. “I’m looking forward to it. Marc is an excellent cook.”

“So is Dev gonna come home? It’s not a real family affair without ‘im,” Amanda presses.

Hawthorne frowns. “We’re working on it. The Farm is a bit sparse, this time of year, and the Guardians are… manic with all the celebrating. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to swing it, but he’s going to try. Either way, Marc is just excited that I’m bringing friends home. He kind of missed that phase with my whole wandering outside the City thing.” Amanda laughs and dips her head, sipping her wine.

Unnoticed by Suraya, wise brown eyes find Zavala’s. She smirks, but covers it quickly with her hand. Nothing, absolutely nothing, escapes old Eva.

The conversation continues around them. Amanda muses, “Well, he’s certainly gonna have his hands full. Y’gonna invite Saladin?” She glares at Shaxx, who bristles immediately. “If y’did, tell Marc to sit me between them at dinner. It’s for the best for e’rybody. ‘S what we used to do for my birthday parties.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hawthorne considers, serious. Everyone laughs.

“I’m sure it will be a lovely celebration,” Eva adds with a smile. “I already promised Tess I would spend time with her, but we’ll do our best to stop by afterwards.”

"Please do. We always have enough leftovers for a week. The number of mouths he's feeding won't change the ratio of food per person, there will be so much left over."

-/

When everyone else goes their separate ways, Zavala gives in to the impulse to take her hand. Suraya looks over to him with a hint of a smile and allows herself to drift closer to him. Their upper arms touch, and her head finds his shoulder for a brief moment before she pulls away.

"This is impressive," Suraya gestures to the Tower around them. "If the frames could be programmed to help decorate the districts, I'd be out of a job."

"I assure you, you would not," He hums, admiring the decorations as well. "I don't know how she managed to secure enough frames. I assume she received help from the Redjacks. Arcite had tinsel hanging off his frame earlier."

She laughs. "He didn't."

"He did," Zavala insists, chuckling. His voice dips lower. "Everyone seems excited for your Dawning celebration," He continues. 

She makes a non-committal hum. "Our Dawning celebration. Marc insists you're part of the family now. Bit weird when you start thinking about the age difference, but," They share a smile. It is what it is. "It'll be nice. I just wish Devrim would be able to come home, y'know? I get why he can't," She sighs when he pulls her closer, releasing her hand in lieu of wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "Ugh. Ignore me, I've had too much wine. I know you tried to figure it out."

"It's fine," Zavala replies, smoothly as he can.

"I just, I haven't had this since I was a kid, y'know?" She shakes her head, as though she hadn't meant to let that much slip. "It is what it is."

They continue walking in the direction of their flat, the only sound between them is the crunch of fresh, undisturbed snow beneath their feet.

Eventually, Zavala admits, "The Dawning is far more nostalgic for you than it is for me." He looks down at her. "I recall making arrangements for Amanda's sake and volunteering, things I would normally do flavored by the season," He supposes. "But I am looking forward to experiencing it from a different perspective."

Suraya snorts. "You mean my dad treating you like a kid because we're together?"

Zavala shrugs. "Centuries of war don't prepare you for your significant other's family. This is uncharted territory. I've never-" The 'dated a non-Guardian' goes unsaid. Suraya is a lot of firsts for him. The same goes for him with her.

"I know." Her eyes soften. "I want you to be excited for this, too."

"I am."

"Good."


	3. Baking Cookies

Marc, in typical Marc fashion, revises a midday brunch to a family-style dinner not long after making their arrangement. Apparently he’d got Amanda’s very enthusiastic RSVP and decided she should be treated to a home-cooked meal and be able to provide input on their Dawning Celebration. After all, accepting Zavala into their unorthodox family meant Amanda came along with it.

"Oh, this isn't going to end well." Suraya rolls her eyes as Amanda hollers, "He doesn't know the difference between salt and sugar!"

The Clan Stewardess pulls a beer from the fridge and hands it to the Shipwright. "Take this, and go back to watching your sparrow racing, would you?" When Amanda goes, she lays a hand on his forearm. "You're doing fine."

Zavala sighs. "I don't have to help with these-"

"Yes, you do. You’re psyching yourself out. Stop doubting yourself. Cooking and baking are two totally different things."

"And yet you excel at both."

"Both my fathers taught me what they knew. Besides, I don't think anyone was baking cookies in the dark ages," She reminds him. The exaggeration earns her a subdued half-smile. "Blend in the butter. Slow, fold it in on itself." She watches the consistency change, sticking her fingers into the mixture to test it. "Perfect," She tells him, voice even, not indulgent. Tension bleeds from his shoulders. "I'll roll it out. Amanda picked the cut-outs, right?"

He turns, finding them on the counter near the refrigerator and brings them to her. "Here."

"You can do this too, it's easy." She hands him back one that looks suspiciously like a jumpship. They exchange a glance at the rest - also jumpships and sparrows - and Hawthorne grabs a few more that look like stars and bells, even a little Ghost-shaped one.

He presses the cookie cutter into the flat roll of dough carefully.

"You can't hurt it, Zavala, push all the way through." 

He does, and when he pulls back the cookie cutter, the dough comes with it. Halfway through transferring it to the cookie sheet nearby, it flops out of the plastic. He catches it in a fist, effectively ruining the shape. 

Hawthorne laughs, opening his fist and plucking out the dough. "Put your hand under it next time." She rolls the misshapen cut-out back into a ball and pops it back in the bowl with the other half of the dough. "You really can't hurt these. I promise."

"You've seen me try to cook," He reminds her, pressing into the dough again.

Her hips nudge his. "You've got this, Commander. Besides, Marc will be more obsessed with us baking together than he will about the quality. He can't bake to save his life. Ask him about the time we tried to make Dev a birthday cake. He'll love it." 

Amanda shouts something in the background, kicking her feet against the bottom of the couch. No doubt she has glimmer riding on the results of the race. Meanwhile, Suraya works with precision and experience, rolling out more dough on the counter beside him to speed things up.

"Did Marc try often?" Zavala knows by now that her childhood isn't a secret, but she grows embarrassed easily and won't share much without pointed questions. As it happens, Zavala is curious, wanting to know as much about her as he can.

He'll get the story from her first, and still ask her adoptive parent later. By then, Suraya will be loose enough to point out any inconsistencies, and add her own commentary. 

"No. He looked up ‘easy to bake recipes for kids’ exactly one time," She admits, sheepish still. "Dev was on assignment and due back on his birthday. We did some accidental chemistry." She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, spearing a dab of flower on it. He spares it a fond blink and meets her eyes once more. "Some cakes use vinegar, and baking soda. It helps them rise. It's also the same thing used in children's experiments, science fair volcanoes, that sort of thing." She shrugs. 

"My Dad - I mean, you've seen him, he cooks by heart. The recipes are just guidelines." Zavala hums in agreement. "So he dumps the vinegar in right after the baking soda, and he's got the mixer on, right?" She claps her hands. "Just, bam! Everywhere. Chocolatey ruin, all over the kitchen." She laughs and he can't help but smile. "I must have been eight or nine, I can't remember. I laughed about it for a week. He spent an hour washing chocolatey goo out of my hair, and three more trying to clean the kitchen."

"What did you do?"

"He all but sprinted to the bakery. We made it home with maybe ten minutes to spare? Dev probably wouldn't have known," She grins, "But I ratted Marc out immediately."

Zavala laughs.

"He was so stressed, and Dev was so confused, and," Suraya giggles, "I didn't know what to do." She snorts, having to stop what she's doing, she's laughing so hard. "Marc started raving. 'The damn thing said it was for kids,' he kept saying. He's sworn off baking to this day, and I'm not kidding, he hasn't made a single dessert." Finally, she composes herself, wiping tears from her eyes. "I am so making him tell you the story. He'll lose his mind."

"Are you sure you want to antagonize him?"

She is. "He's a primadonna. He loves it. He'll start with the hand motions-" She flops a hand towards him, dusting his sweater with flour, lips snacking as she tries to belay her laughter once more. "Oops."

Blue eyes look down and narrow. "Suraya," He warns in a tone that says he’s already determined his next move and it’s not in her favor.

She grins, sheepishly. "Whatever you're thinking, don't."

Dark shapely eyebrows rise and fall in a silent insinuation. 

The next time Amanda comes into the kitchen, there may or may not be hand prints on Suraya's back, and flour in her hair. Zavala isn't faring any better, she sees what she'd guess is a Suraya-sized palm smeared across the seat of his jeans. She takes one look at them and makes an about-face, leaving her empty on counter, sneaking into the fridge for another, unwilling to join in the chaos. They're too busy carrying on to notice her, and she's not about to spoil their fun.

She will, however, bring it up to Marc later, because she knows he'll want to hear all about it.

-/

It's well after dinner when the girls are laying on the couch watching some old holiday feature that Zavala pulls Marc aside. He waits until Suraya is nodding off onto Amanda's shoulder - Amanda is too enthralled to mind, she loves these reruns - to slip back into the kitchen unnoticed. 

"Plans in plans?" Marc queries smartly, unprovoked. His hair is starting to turn more pewter than black-brown these days, but he still doesn’t look a day past forty (he’s thankful to his skin-routine and hairdresser for that). He gestures to the large kitchen island, and the stools beside it.

“Well,” Zavala doesn’t look nervous. Perhaps that’s why it radiates off him so obviously. Marc doesn’t believe in auras, but projection and a little context do wonders. “I do need to ask you something.”

Marc shakes his head, patting Zavala’s folded hands. “When and how? Is there a plan and can I help?”

“You don’t even know-”

His hazel eyes shine in fond amusement. “She sees right through you, doesn’t she?” He muses aloud, to which Zavala shifts uncomfortably, exposed. “That’s not a Devrim trait, you know.” He tips his head down, trying and failing to conceal his grin before swinging his gaze back up to ethereal blue. “She gets that from me."

"Still-"

"I am absolutely certain my husband gave you the curt, gentleman's heart-to-heart and relished every awkward second of it." He crosses one leg over the other, and smiles. Devrim had called him immediately after this particular conversation, resources and satellites, encrypted comm protocols be damned. After all, it wasn't often that the Vanguard Commander snuck into the wilds unannounced to ask your blessing to marry your child. "You don't need to convince me. I'm here for this. And you.” His eyebrows dip in an insinuation. “So spill."

Zavala leans in, voice dropping to barely a whisper, and Marc scoots closer, visibly vibrating with excitement.

-/

The Guardians waste no time presenting their Vanguard with presents. For Ikora, flaky pastries replace last year's overabundance of donut holes. Zavala finds himself inundated with Gjallardoodles again, within hours of the Tower's festivities officially beginning. Eva, laughing from her place between Tess, Kadi, and Rahool, only encourages it. 

Hawthorne watches from afar. She doesn't have the heart to tell them that Louis doesn't eat birdseed when they bring it by the bag. Instead, she sets it aside for Colonel, who is still roosting comfortably in the Hangar and will - unlike what Cayde insisted previously - eat anything.

At some point, she sees Zavala approach Ikora for some sort of exchange. Pastries for cookies, conversation between them unrushed and pleasant. She can see it in their body language. They may not be close, but it warms Suraya to see Ikora smile, for her to be getting along with Zavala and them to be working as a team once more. 

The year prior had been rough for everyone. Hawthorne and Zavala were still working to well and truly define what was between them when Cayde was murdered. Sure, there were feelings and Suraya's relatively certain they both knew what those feelings were at the time (they just wanted to be careful), but losing Cayde changed things. 

The Vanguard was forever changed. At one point, Suraya had been pulled into a meeting with the Hidden - which was something - and been asked about Zavala's stability (they really did know everything, which was alarming) and her opinions on the Vanguard being necessary at all. It had been a time. Of course, she understood why those questions begged asking. Zavala threw up walls like she did, closing himself off to everyone.

But, Suraya knows better than anyone how to slip in the cracks. She did not push or prod. Did not beg his attention or time or push him to cheer up. She simply existed, constant and quiet, at the edges of the room, the other side of his bed. Waiting. It didn't take nearly as long as she had expected.

Now, she knows, she has Eva to thank for that. There was a reason she'd made sure Suraya only received edibles for her feathered companion (misguided though it was). The old woman had given him a reason to be concerned, a reason to share his overabundance of holiday treats with her, and it paid off.

It took far longer for the Vanguard to make peace and try to move on, for Ikora and Zavala to set aside their collective pride and grief and foster a relationship once more.

Here they are, though. She can hear Zavala's low laugh from here, see the way Ikora reaches out to test one of the better looking cookies in the tin he's holding. They're better together, the both of them.

Louis squawks something agreeable, and she doesn't think on it much when she turns to feed him a little nibble of the treats he'd been given that he does enjoy. Some of the Hunters who know a thing or two about hawking have brought him presents, as well. He hasn't gone hunting yet, and 'tis the season. He's a little underweight as it is. He chitters on like the spoiled brat he is, keeping her attention. She smooths his feathers and grins at him. He looks at her, head tilted, beak parted. Asking for the rest.

"No more," She says, and his cries grow a little more urgent. "You want food, you have to hunt. You're not a chicken."

He beats his wings petulantly before crying once more. Suraya laughs and sends him on his way.

When she turns back, Zavala is entrusting the two tins of leftover Gjallardoodles to Ikora. The Warlock slips the smaller one into a drawer at her station. Suraya doesn't think anything of it.


	4. Secret Santa

The bowl sits in the center of the table inconspicuously. The table itself is so large and round that it's impossible for any one of them to reach for it politely. Not that they would. In fact, what lay inside that bowl is far more heinous than any discussion or argument they'll have today on any of the items on the formal agenda.

But it is tradition. An old tradition. The Speaker's tradition. And this is a time of year in which they honor those traditions, even if the man himself is not around to coerce them into it. Besides, with Zavala fully leaning into the season, the Consensus has no choice but to follow along.

Rezoning the Arbor District is not met with nearly as much enthusiasm as whatever texted conversation between Arach Jalal and Lakshmi-2 is. Ikora watches them, almost amused but actually able to focus on what the Executor is saying.

She sees Zavala's pointed gaze and blinks demurely in an unspoken response. They'll never accomplish anything in this state.

"Executor, would you mind explaining that bit about the shipyard once more?" The Warlock Vanguard calls out, mellow and even, commanding the attention of all parties without trying. "I think some of our colleagues were... distracted."

"Shipyard?" Arach Jalaal turns to Hideo interested. "Where?"

"Did I say 'shipyard?'" Hideo clicks his tongue, pretending to sound innocent. "New Monarchy will be adding an addendum to-"

"Pettiness is unbecoming, Executor," Ikora chides, so Zavala doesn't have to. A gift, in its own way. She waves her hand. "Do go on."

Hideo does, resuming his lengthy explanation of his faction's plans. They're eventually drawn and quartered by the other two reps while the Vanguard and Clan Stewardess watch. It will likely be another two sessions before any tentative agreement is reached.

While this is happening, Hawthorne, to Ikora's left, slides her an envelope. Zavala clears his throat and narrows his gaze at Suraya, but she shrugs him off. He knows what she's just given the Warlock.

Zavala takes his role as leader of the Consensus seriously; He does not appreciate outside distractions. Suraya just knows there's no sense in trying to interject while the children - she means Faction Reps - are squabbling amongst themselves. Been there, done that.

Ikora quietly peels open the envelope and scans the contents of the card inside. She tilts her head in surprise before closing it entirely and fixing Hawthorne with a gaze that doesn't seem quite sure how to react.

If Hawthorne knows this, she doesn't act like it. In fact, there's a sheepish pink tint to her cheeks. It's Zavala, to Ikora's right, who leans in and whispers that despite the stationary the event is entirely casual, but they'd like her to attend if she felt so inclined.

Ikora swings her gaze to Zavala. He does not look away. She checks to ensure the conversation is still happening across the table, then looks back to Hawthorne, nodding graciously. "Thank you for thinking of me," She hums softly. “I’ll be there.” There is a lingering melancholy to her these days, but it's softened by her resolve to move forward instead of lingering on things they cannot change.

"Don't thank me yet," Suraya grumbles mildly. For two women who have little in common, they have similar feelings of discomfort when it comes to potentially emotional situations. "I can't promise my father - Marc,” She clarifies quietly, “Won't fawn over you. He's been trying to figure out what color that golden eyeshadow you wear is for ages." 

"Really?" It's clear Ikora can't remember the last time she'd done her makeup. Not that she needs it, her complexion has always been stunning. Still, it's food for thought.

The Clan Stewardess nods, a hint of a smile lighting her face. "I've already told him not to call you fierce a million times, but honestly, I don't think he’ll be able to help himself."

"I think I can handle some well-meaning flattery," Ikora supposes, her lips threatening to curl upward.

Her tablet makes a barely noticeable buzz against the tabletop with a message from Zavala.

_She's not kidding. He was disappointed when I told him that my 'eyeliner' was just natural coloring._

The tiniest snicker escapes Ikora's usually impenetrable facade. She covers it with a cough, pressing a hand to her lips, and Suraya and Zavala meet each other's gazes around her. A lilting eyebrow responds to a soft pull of lips to the left.

"Are we missing something over there?" Arach Jalaal interrupts, suspicious. "I do hope you're not holding back on our account."

"Not at all," Zavala transitions easily, cool and somehow so guardedly open. "We were simply discussing another matter as you have yet to motion the council with a proposal you can mutually agree on."

"Right, because that's always been your way," Lakshmi imposes, voice crisp and sarcastic.

"There are other items on the agenda," Ikora reminds them, gesturing to the bowl in the middle. She doesn't look particularly enthused about it, though Jalaal and Lakshmi return to their previously animated states. If she were able, Lakshmi's mouth plates would be parted in a wide, cheshire grin.

"Remind me again," Hideo drawls, annoyed, "Why we are exchanging gifts? A dead holiday belonging to a made up religion inspires… what, exactly?"

Zavala ignores their sentiments, keeping to business as usual. It's his 'babysitting' tone. "This is a tradition, and I will expect all of you to keep things polite in your gift giving." He pauses. "And work appropriate." All eyes seem to find Arach Jalaal.

"I seem to recall that we are all adults here, and this event isn't exactly on the record."

"Yes, and while I'm sure the Executor loved your well illustrated guide to the ways of Kamasutra-" The group snickers and sputters but Zavala does not so much as waver around the subject matter, "I do not believe it is appropriate for a work function."

"It's harmless fun. I'm sure the Executor got good use out of it. His-"

"Enough," Zavala booms, not interested in presiding over the ensuing squabble. "Our gathering will be held in two weeks' time and I would expect you all to conduct yourselves appropriately."

"Next you'll be imposing a drink limit," Lakshmi drones to the group, who finds it amusing.

Zavala remains stoic, but his answer is indulgent enough. "As tempting as that sounds, I would imagine alcohol is the only item this group can agree on."

-/

“It’s hardly fair, you know,” Ikora chides, lips twisting into the subtlest of smirks.

Beside her, Zavala walks sedately. He turns his head to the right to regard her and she lifts one singular eyebrow. To that, both of his furrow. “What do you mean?”

“You obviously got Hawthorne,” She tells him, careful not to be too loud and alert anyone who might be listening.

He looks away and back, as if to confirm her level of seriousness. She is. He shakes his head incredulously. “I didn’t,” He tells his partner in arms. “Why would you think that?”

“You looked smug when you picked.”

“How do you know I didn’t get you?”

Ikora almost smiles at him. “My friend, you have a terrible poker face.” She stops when he does. They'll both be returning to their posts for the afternoon. "If you picked me, you wouldn't be able to hold this conversation. You'd change the subject." 

Sighing, Zavala intends to see through her motives. "You don't know what to get for yours."

"I do," She assures him. "I just know you have about two hours before Suraya knows who you picked, as well." She crosses her arms. "I thought you could do without the extra scrutiny, considering..." She ends with a well-timed glance, a questioning eyebrow on the rise.

He fishes the folded scrap of paper out of a concealed pocket and hands it to her. In exchange, she extends to him a slip of paper that's flattened but creased. "Ikora," He chides, looking at it.

She grins. "I didn't go first. This is hardly my fault."

"You're supposed to draw again."

"No one ever does."

Zavala huffs. "What are you getting Hawthorne?"

Ikora tilts her head. "The gift of not being embarrassed when she receives a gift from you in front of our colleagues who will tease her mercilessly about you two being together."

"Ikora-"

"Relax. I have some ideas." She pats his forearm as she goes, leaning in to whisper, "Make sure you get me something nice."

-/

"I can't do this," Suraya groans into Amanda's workbench. "It'll be so obvious."

"It's already obvious," The Shipwright replies, waving a wrench. "Just get him something impersonal. He won't be upset or nothin', he knows how it is, and I'm sure he doesn't want some big gesture or anything like that, 'specially not in front of the peanut gallery." She leans over the engine of a sparrow, twisting off pieces like she's making art. "Go with liquor. Bottle ‘a wine is always classy."

“Yeah,” Hawthorne scoffs. "But we swore off exchanging gifts. We just want to spend time together."

"So? It’s not like you’re doing it because you want to, Suraya.”

"So," She rolls her eyes and Amanda sticks her tongue out in response, "I don't want things to get blown out of proportion. They already suspect-”

“Is that really so bad?”

“No!” She blurts, surprised at her own loud staccato outburst. “Us being public hurts him more than it hurts me. I don’t really care.”

Amanda’s eyebrows go up in a question that she doesn’t have to voice, reminiscent of the man in question. 

“You’re going to tell me that if he cared, he wouldn’t be in the relationship.”

“No. I’m not.” She wipes her hands on her coveralls and pushes herself up and onto the workbench Suraya is sulking on. “Zavala has always been careful. Taking me on wasn’t exactly his brightest idea, as thankful as I am for it, an’ seein’ you probably wasn’t, either at first.” Suraya turns her head to watch her. “You make him feel younger. A li’l more reckless. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. He’s still the same Zavala, just… a little happier sharin’ his life with you. ‘Bout time the rest of the world learn there’s more to him than crochet hooks, poetry, fancy title ‘n responsibilities.” 

Despite her dirty hands, Suraya squeezes one of Amanda’s. She wipes a streak of grease onto her bare arm with a smirk after, and Amanda laughs.

“Sorry to eavesdrop-”

Amanda hops down from the bench with a loud clomp. “Ugh,” She grunts. “Yer not. Whatcha want, Jalaal?”

“I’m here to propose a trade.”

“A trade? I don’ want any of yer scrap unless you’ve somehow managed to find usable spinmetal.”

Dead Orbit’s leader pushes back a shiny black lock of hair that’s fallen into his eyes. “Not with you. I overheard your predicament.”

Both women roll their eyes. “What predicament?” Amanda asks, about ready to bully him back to his tent-like station on the other side of the hangar. 

“I’ll trade with you,” He offers Hawthorne, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket.

“Why?” Suraya asks, skeptical. “You’re constantly goading us about things.”

“I was there at the beginning,” Arach Jalaal says, wistful. It's true he'd been there, at the Farm, during the war. He'd seen their first interactions, if only from afar. “You have undeniable chemistry. No one needs to see you exchange gifts to know that.”

“Who did you get?”

He grins. It’s all teeth.

“Oh, hell naw,” Amanda says, seeing the trap for what it is. “Suraya, don’t you dare.”

The Clan Stewardess’ eyes narrow. Skeptically, she asks, “If I do this, are you going to gift him an inappropriate gift?”

“It's tempting, but I'll do my best to refrain.” The Arach admits, smile never faltering. “Though, can you blame me?”

“You don’t tell him this transaction took place.” Suraya swings to regard Amanda. “Both of you.”

“Yer gonna give Hideo a gift instead, then? You know that’s who he’s got.”

“Lakshmi got Hideo, I heard her whining about it after the meeting,” Suraya whispers to her.

Jalaal carries on. “I really just want to give the Commander a copy of the-”

“No.” Both women interrupt him immediately. It was no secret what he’d given the Executor the previous year, even outside of the Consensus hall.

He flicks more hair from his face. “What? Does he already own it?”

Amanda clamps both hands over her ears and makes a noise that’s not quite a screech. “Out. Get out. Both’a ya.”

Deadpan, Suraya responds to the Arach’s commentary, “I don’t think that nice girl at the bookshop down in the Bazaar sells erotic texts.”

“Wow, that escalated quickly.” He doesn’t react to Amanda pushing him out of her space, simply lets her guide him away. “I saw a new poetry compilation for winter. It’s been sold out for a few weeks and I overheard him speaking to the kiosk attendant. I thought I would-”

“Wow,” Amanda interjects, stopping in the middle of the hangar. “That’s surprisingly tame.”

“You’ll recall that I’m a fan of both of you. This City-” He turns around and gestures, “Droll. A deathtrap. This planet-”

“Ah, there’s that good old, trademark Dead Orbit nihilism,” Suraya says, with fake cheeriness.

“-Doomed.” He thrusts his secret santa tag at her. “Doesn’t mean I’m rooting for you any less.”

“Huh,” Amanda remarks, surprised, “That’s awful nice of you.”

Jalaal ignores her. His icy eyes regard Hawthorne. “So?”

She pulls out her drawing for the gift exchange and passes it to him. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Have fun shopping for the Executor.”

Suraya’s face falls, and she hastily uncrumples the paper in her hand. “No, you had-”

Arach Jalaal laughs. “You’re not the only person I traded with.”

The Shipwright thumps her hard on the back. “Told ya, girl.”


	5. The Sounds of the Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the frames enjoy the worst of the worst Golden Age carols, Shaxx means to use them as a weapon against Saladin, and Saladin hears something interesting from Tyra Karn.

Something is different about the Tower. There’s usually some manner of ruckus, chaos, or conflict that puts the entirety of the wall on high alert, but this is nothing like that. Things are almost… tranquil. Guardians are running around as usual, but Zavala cannot discern any immediate threat or danger, only that there is a deviation beyond the decorations within the Tower proper.

He lingers a few minutes longer. Then, deciding not to press the issue, he heads to the Bazaar to speak with Ikora.

Upon his arrival to the other open air area of the Tower, he discovers that something seems off here, too. However, he’s distracted by Ikora’s presence beside Hawthorne, upon her ledge. Whatever they’re conversing about, it doesn’t seem to be serious. Suraya’s shoulders are back, not raised and uncomfortable.

He strides up the steps to the tiny ledge, together the three of them are very nearly crowded together.

“Ah,” Ikora hums, stepping into the doorway that leads up to an upper patio. “Good morning, Commander.”

“Hey,” Suraya says, far less formal. “What’s up?”

“Do you notice anything strange?” He asks them both.

“Oh, we have,” Ikora nods. “I’ve heard that infuriating about a hula hoop five times in the last two hours.”

“Song?”

Hawthorne gestures to a speaker woven seamlessly into the bits and baubles that decorate the Tower. “Holiday songs. Golden age ones. I don’t know who this ‘Alvin’ or his ‘Chipmunks’ are, but they’re a special kind of torture.”

“I agree.” Ikora waves a hand. “Perhaps if we send our fireteams out with this heinous assault to the senses our enemies would give up and leave the system.”

“I don’t think a song would-”

The Warlock Vanguard interrupts, her voice stern. “Just wait. You’ll understand it, I assure you.”

-/

It's a catchy song from a dead religion. It takes two hours for him to hear the song on the Tower PA - apparently Ikora had sent Ophiuchus to intervene - but when he does, the strange, high-pitched quality of their voices is incredibly irritating. The melody is… something.

Before he knows it, it's stuck in his head.

Even his Ghost can't take it.

She appears before him, annoyed. "I'm going to see if Eva will turn this off. Or at least change it to something - anything else,” She says aloud, annoyed. “If we have to listen to this for the next two weeks, I don't know what I'll do."

He doesn't get a word in before she zips off, delicately drifting over the heads of officers and Guardians to seek out the celebration's mistress of ceremonies.

When she returns, he feels it. She does not linger in the physical realm.

_"Apparently, the frames really like them."_

"Like whom?" Zavala thinks back through their link.

 _"Those..._ chipmunks _."_

Zavala turns to look out over the City, and does his best to clear his mind. He has another hour before his lunch hour and the entirety of his afternoon are double booked with meetings and office appointments. Even with centuries of practice in meditation, he cannot seem to escape the abysmal melodies that play.

Across the way, Shaxx is shouting sharply, irked more than usual. Meanwhile, Arcite sways happily to the beat of a song about silver and gold that makes no sense.

He's nearly tuned it all out when:

"ARCITE, IF YOU SING THAT CHORUS ONE MORE TIME, I WILL THROW YOU OVER THE BLOODY RAILING!"

Zavala blinks his eyes away from the Core, white and shining in the distance. He knows that's an empty threat. Arcite is Shaxx's most trusted, unendingly loyal partner. But an outburst like that is bound to cause more harm than good for the Guardians in the Crucible, and, more importantly, Zavala needs to get him sorted out before-

"Nothing changes around here, I see," Comes a growl, further back. Shaxx falls silent, crossing his arms and scoffing.

"Arcite," Shaxx croons almost lovingly to the frame, "Forget I said anything. Sing, dance, enjoy the season." Quieter, he asks, "And see if you can't get the frame in charge of the PA system to play more of those offensive tracks with those squeaking rodents. I'm sure the old man will _love_ them."

Zavala rubs his temples. He can already tell half of his afternoon will be mediating their squabbles. Between meetings in which he is also mediating other people's squabbles. At least his office does not have one of those speakers routed through it.

-/

Suraya returns home late. Nothing of issue, just much to do, and not enough time in the day. He's already in bed, but the sound of the door opening is enough to put him on alert and set aside his crochet. Unlike her, he does know when to set aside his projects before he falls asleep.

He hears the sound of her footfalls, quiet, almost silent across the wood floor. She brushes her teeth, washes her face, and returns to the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water. Then, he knows, she comes to the bedroom, quietly pushing open the door for fear of waking him on the off chance he's nodded off.

"Hey," She whispers, not needing to be loud.

"Hello." He pats the bed beside him and she begins shucking off her clothes.

When she's down to undergarments, she trades the top half for a shirt that doesn't belong to her and slips between the blankets he's peeled away to welcome her in. "So," She begins, grinning, "How much do you love me?"

He tsks. "That depends. How many laws have you broken?"

"None," She chimes brightly. "Changed woman." Her eyes search his. "Thought you knew that."

"Mmm," He hums indulgently. "And yet, when you ask me something like this, I can't help but wonder what fires I'll be putting out come first light."

"Again, none." He looks at her with the full weight of his gaze, every ounce Vanguard Commander. She doesn't back down, which comes as a relief. Instead, she yields, "I mean, the frames might be a little upset."

"The frames?"

She pushes herself against him, tucking her head against the pillow and looking up at him. He can see the exhaustion on her features from this angle. "I stopped by to see my dad. Grabbed an," She rolls her eyes but her lips quirk into a quick, tiny smile, " _Alternative_ to what the frames have been playing all day. Should be just light enough to keep everyone from a murderous rampage, but also satisfy the frames and their very weird desire to hear bells jingling and whatnot."

"The frames can-"

She nods into his bare chest. "I also asked Ikora to help encrypt the files. They need her security clearance. I offered to add yours, but she's confident no one will get past her."

Suraya pushes his chest, and he rolls onto his back without protest. Despite her tiredness, she swings herself atop him. "So," She asks again, cheeky, "How much do you love me?"

Blue eyes meet hers intently. "You're incredible," He breathes, hands finding her hips. She tilts her head back, anticipating his response, but he flips them, letting her sink into the mattress. She does so bonelessly, eyes sinking shut and opening slowly a few seconds later. "Sleep."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"You know I love you," He rumbles, low and rough, pulling the duvet up and over her. He decides not to comment that she’d absolutely have acted outside of her jurisdiction and used his encryption codes if Ikora had decided it necessary.

"Mmm," She agrees, waiting for him to turn out the lights before scooching a little closer to him. "But how much?" She asks, her words slurring when he nudges his knees against the back of hers, pulling her against him in a loose, one-armed embrace.

"Enough to show my gratitude to you in the morning, Suraya."

"That's a lot," She decides.

He chuckles, soft and warm in her ear. "You have no idea."

-/

"I need to speak with you," Zavala bids him early the next morning. The fires crackle and pop, creating a thick heat that warms Saladin's entire area. Beneath them, Shaxx is already yelling, though he stops to holler a hearty greeting to the Clan Stewardess as she heads to her post for the morning.

"About?" Saladin is curt, but it does not bother Zavala. He's used to things being nearly terse and rather business-like within the confines of the Tower. Though the Iron Lord holds no actual title of power in the City, he is treated as though he does.

"A matter for the holiday." He lowers his voice. "Suraya is having everyone over to her family's home."

Saladin's stern nature is unyielding. "And she wishes to invite me?"

"We both would," Zavala intones. "It's hardly a secret that we have been seeing each other."

"And we're to celebrate with her family.”

"Yes. A casual affair. Food, drink, and found family, as she calls it."

He strokes his chin once. "Hm. That's all?"

"Yes," Zavala agrees. "We aren't doing gifts or anything like that."

"And?"

Zavala muses, "Shaxx is invited, but Amanda has dedicated herself to keeping him in line."

Saladin's eyes narrow. "Anything else?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"You're sure?" Saladin's right eyebrow rises almost imperceptibly.

The Commander shakes his head. "It may get out of hand, I was told these things do," He supposes to his old mentor. "Please don't feel obligated to attend, we just wished to extend the invitation-"

"Obviously I'm going to attend," Saladin interjects. The Iron Lord resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Tell her I would be honored." He turns Zavala around with a wide palm, and Zavala straightens when a large arm bars across his upper back to usher him away. "Let's walk and talk, shall we?" Saladin's usual growl turns lower. "You're sure there's nothing else about this gathering I need to know?"

"I don't believe so."

"No surprises?"

Zavala turns his head to regard his mentor's face, his lips pursing for a second. "I am working on bringing Devrim home, as a surprise for Suraya, but that is a secret. No one knows."

Saladin hums. When they're further away from everyone, overlooking the mountains beyond the wall, he releases Zavala, tucking one fist into the other hand behind his back. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. His head tilts, waiting. _"And?"_

"And what?"

"Try again, and remember that I speak to Tyra quite frequently."

"Tyra?"

"Tyra Karn-"

Zavala waves a hand. "I know, I know, but-" He stops abruptly, falling still. Those earnest blue eyes are blown wide, glowing brighter in momentary panic.

"There it is," Saladin mutters in his usual growl.

"Devrim would not have told her," Zavala hastily replies.

"He didn't have to. You came looking for him." He doesn't quite smirk back at Zavala, but his gaze is amused. "You may as well waved a flag with your intentions on it."

"I was cautious," Zavala points out.

"Certainly," Saladin barks, "But she doesn't miss a trick." He thumps the other Titan once on the back. There is a passing silence, then, "Well? Explain yourself this instant!"

Zavala jumps, quick to make eye contact and collect his thoughts so that he can comply with the request.

He's nervous, Saladin realizes, but he cannot help himself. As Zavala begins outlining his plan (taking great care to confirm no one is around to overhear), Saladin graces him with the rarest of smiles, proud and true.

"This is what you want?" He asks his former charge, when he's finished. It's a loaded question, but Saladin knows Zavala would consider every angle, even the less pleasant ones of a decision like this. It cannot be taken lightly.

"Yes," Zavala’s reply is immediate. "More than I have wanted anything else." Thoughtful, but without hesitation. Zavala is sure to meet his eyes, to hold Saladin's scrutinous gaze.

The last of the Iron Lords nods. His arm comes around Zavala's back again, squeezing once before releasing. He allows himself to feel that bittersweet feeling, let it honey the gravel in his voice. "Then make it so."


	6. Ugly Sweaters

Weeks ago, she'd asked him.

"Do you think you could make me a sweater? Y'know, one of those tacky ones, for the Dawning?"

"Are you insinuating something about my craft?" Blue eyes hold hers, not an ounce of amusement present in their depths.

"No! Not at all!" She frowns and glowers when he shows amusement at her immediate retcon. "Wait, are you pulling my leg? You are!" She hops up off the sofa, scandalized. "I'm hurt. That's low."

He rolls his eyes. "Sit back down, Suraya." Ever reasonable, he informs her, "There's not enough time to make you a sweater."

She tucks herself back against him, making her irritation known. "Look... Don't I get priority? Special treatment?"

"You get plenty of special treatment," He reminds her, eyebrows dipping into something suggestive. "But I only make three sweaters a year. One for Amanda, and then two for whomever else asks me first." 

"And you didn't think that I'd want one?!"

"You have a poncho. I didn't know that you'd participate."

"You're kidding me, right? Me. The person who is throwing all of you a holiday bash?" She pulls back to look at him properly. "Tell me you at least have an old one I can borrow!"

"No. I wear the same one each year."

She sighs. Minimalist bastard, she thinks, but there’s no anger behind it. "Alright, well who else did you make an ugly Sweater for?"

"Jalaal and Eva."

"You're kidding me." She slaps her thighs. "Eva I get. But Jalaal? Really?"

"I've already handed them out. Ask me next year."

Suraya scoffs, but she knows that if he said no, it's not that he doesn't want to, but that he won't commit to something he can't do. "I'm asking you right now. I want one."

"For next year?"

"Yeah. With a bird on it."

He swings his gaze over to the falcon near the window, napping comfortably upon his perch. He nods, pressing his lips to her forehead. "I'll see what I can do."

That, in Zavala speak, is an agreement, and she hums in approval before returning to her initial issue. "I have no idea where to get an ugly sweater."

"You could wear mismatching colors," Zavala suggests, but it’s not as though either of them really pay attention to what colors match versus mismatch, anyway.

She shrugs, burrowing into his side. It isn't often they get to enjoy each other's company during the day when they're not at work. "I don't want to win Amanda's contest, but I'd like to at least have something festive, y'know?"

"I understand. You could try Tess-"

"And pay a million glimmer for something itchy and polyester? No."

Zavala chuckles. "I thought you refused to become a ‘textile snob,’” He airquotes, “As you so kindly told me the last time I expressed my disdain for synthetics."

Blowing a raspberry - that should be enough of a concession, she supposes, she says, "I like being comfortable. I'll leave the specifics to you, but I wouldn’t consider myself a snob." She taps a finger to her lips. "Unless we're talking alpaca. That stuff is amazing and I wish it was waterproof."

"It is water resistant," He points out, to her amusement. _Textile snob._ "But I do know what you mean."

-/

One thing she notices more and more as the season goes on is that the Guardians really get into the holiday. It's good for them, Suraya thinks. They're all wearing festively patterned cloaks and robes, she's even seen some very tacky and incredibly oversized jazzed-up pauldrons on a Titan. She slips her hands under the billowing flaps of her poncho and continues through the Courtyard. It's been very cold, and she's been spoiled to have relief from the elements a vast majority of the time since moving back to the City.

Her hood blows back and off and she rolls her eyes. The winds up here are far worse than on the ground. Up ahead, she sees a shivering figure and sighs.

When he notices her, she cannot help herself, shouting, "What were you thinking? I told you to wait for me at the bottom of the elevator!"

He holds up his hands placatingly and only then does she see the figure beside him. 

"What're you doing here?"

Zavala smiles, looking first to make sure no one is around, then presses a quick, chaste kiss to her lips. "I was going into the City to get you something, but since ran into Marc. He said you are heading down to do some shopping, so I'll have you pick it up yourself."

The confusion that crosses her face makes Marc laugh. "Come on, darling, we have things to do to prepare." He takes Suraya's hand but looks to Zavala. "You're sure you don't want to join us?"

"I'm sure. You two have fun. I am going to try and get ahead on my work for the evening, when Amanda inevitably rounds us up for judging." He smiles at Suraya. "Perhaps make some reservations for dinner afterward, assuming we can sneak away."

"Psh, just wine and dine a girl, why don't you?" Her tone clashes with the wide grin that lights up her face.

"I know, I know." He nods to Marc, feigning exasperation. It lacks heat. "I will leave you to it."

"See you soon," Marc calls after him, before fixing Suraya with a thrilled look. "Okay. Lunch first or shopping?"

Suraya's stomach answers for her, and they laugh their way into the elevator. The snow flurries about in that magical festive way and Marc coos about how lovely the City looks from above as the lift carries them down. Never once does he let go of her hand. It reminds her of being younger, a child in braids wearing little red mittens, clomping through the snow behind her adoptive parents. It's something both novel and bittersweet to be back here now, to step out into the massive holiday bazaar that sets up at the foot of the new Tower. She might still feel a little bit like a sell out, but the City carries more and more of her heart every day.

After all, it houses so many of the people she's come to love, and is a testament to the people she does her best to lead and represent.

Marc leads her away from the Dawning market the moment they're on the ground, and instead takes her through a shoveled alley and down to the front of food stands that warm the surrounding street. Together they get street tacos and Marc babbles on about his decorations and plans for the main event, their big holiday soiree.

"Everyone is coming," Suraya reports. "Zavala got Saladin on board. Now all we have to do is make sure he and Shaxx play nice."

"Sounds like a family Dawning to me," Marc muses wryly. "It's never a family affair without someone at odds."

"I mean, ours were always pretty tame."

"Yes, dear, because we are a statistical outlier. And a smaller unit. You never got to experience the family gatherings Devrim's mum had. Someone was always out fighting in the garden, even in a blizzard." He laughs. "Hopefully it won’t come to that, though it’s okay to be a little nervous about it."

She thinks on it, munching through a few more bites of her taco. "Honestly?" The look on her face conveys her own surprise, "Crazy as it sounds - for me, anyway - I'm not."

"And here I was worried you'd be embarrassed about me doting on your work family," He smiles all the same, teasing. "Guess I'll have to step up my game. I just wish your father could be here."

"I know," She agrees, trying not to let the mood fall flat. "Zavala tried. And you know him, he's not the kind to do anything in half measures."

"That's for sure." Marc claps his hands, holding them in front of his face lest she see his smile. "Okay. No moping. Zavala said the shop he'd picked out some sweaters from is near here, and if his taste in wool is anything to go by, I'm going to need to do some shopping, too."

"Sweaters?"

"For the contest. He said he didn't have time to make you one, and that you'd want some nice things to wear for the holiday anyway." He elbows her. "You really lucked out with him, you know."

Suraya rolls her eyes promptly. "Shouldn't you be saying _he's_ the lucky one?"

Marc hums, but pats her arm. "Oh, Suraya, he knows."

-/

"You're sure."

"It's taken care of." Zavala meets his eyes through the screen in front of him. "You'll be covered for the last week of the Dawning. Everyone knows not to speak to Suraya about it, and I've kept the Guardians in the dark on the matter."

Devrim's forehead crinkles when his eyebrows knit closer. "I thought it from the day of the get together through the end of the celebration? Did I miss something?"

"I didn't think it would be fair to usher you home and then force you to host right away. I hadn't told Marc, that was the only piece I was not sure I'd be able to make happen."

"I appreciate it, Commander." His eyes are softer than usual. He clears his throat. "More than you know. This is going to be quite the holiday." He smirks, though it's lessened by the gratefulness in his gaze. "Marc has bought at least four cases of champagne since last we spoke. His letter was especially manic." 

"Well, hopefully for good reason," Zavala trails off. Devrim hums, knowingly. Marc didn’t give him enough credit. He knew some things about some things.

"You've already gotten her to agree to the hard question." Zavala frowns. "She's there, isn't she?" Devrim fixes him with a confident, intent gaze through the screen. "This one is merely a formality, Zavala. She won't refuse you."

"I hope you're right."

"That's the nerves talking." Devrim crosses his arms, looks away for a moment, pensive. "When I asked Marc, I swore my mind went blank. I had a speech, you see, and it didn't matter how many times I'd practiced. It's a big moment." Zavala swallows hard, well aware. "But, you'll look up at her and none of it will matter." Devrim's cold-water eyes brighten. "There's no perfect proposal. It won't all go to plan. The best advice I can give you is to go with your gut."

"You don't think it'll overwhelm her?"

"It will. You'll likely put her to tears," Devrim nods, unable to help the optimistic twist to his lips, "But she won't say no." He pauses. "That won't stop you from worrying, I'm sure. I was a wreck, too."

Zavala can't help but agree. "I don't think I know how not to worry."

"We'll be drinking champagne and celebrating before you know it." An explosion somewhere off in the distance makes the feed shake and fuzz in static. "That sounds like my cue."

"It would seem so. We'll talk soon."

"We will. And, ah, don't... tell Marc yet, about those extra days. Suraya isn't the only one who could stand to be surprised."

"Understood." Zavala taps the end toggle.

-/

Marc waves the bag in front of her face. "He literally picked out everything you'd like so you didn't have to browse. If that's not love, Suraya-"

"I know," She looks down into the second bag, the one she's carrying. The snow-white sweater on top has a smattering of tinsel-like silver woven throughout the bottom half. "He gets me," She tells him. 

"Yeah, clearly. And he called them back to make sure I got this scarf." Marc runs his free hand down the front of it. "It's a really nice scarf."

"Alpaca is amazing, right? I got him some skeins of yarn from a place that raises their own herd of 'em so he can make us a blanket." She reaches out and touches the end. "Oh, wait. Not alpaca. That's cashmere. Fancier than alpaca and really, really soft."

Marc smirks. "You're so knowledgeable."

"He's very… informative?" She waves the word away. "Easy to listen to." She shrugs. "That's all it is."

"So," He loops his arm with hers. "Is he it?"

"It?" She pulls a face. "What does that mean?"

"You know." He smirks. "The one."

She looks away. "I-not all Guardians are into that," She admits, tone dipping lower. 

They come into the holiday market once more and Marc stops, their entwined arms keeping her with him. "Huh. I don't know enough about Guardian culture. Have you talked about it?"

"Not really. We're," She taps her foot and whether it's from nervousness or impatience to get past the conversation, Marc isn't sure. "We just work well together. Simple as that. I'm obviously not going to live as long, but he says he doesn't care about. He wants to be with me as long as he can be and I believe him." She holds her father's gaze. "It's enough."

"Still, I mean, he could ask you. Then what?"

She rolls her eyes. "If he ever asks, I'll let you and Eva fight to the death over stationary and color schemes," She deadpans, tugging his arm. It's as close to a yes as she'll give him. "Can we please get moving?

Marc ducks his head to hide his grin. There won't be much arguing about stationary. Traditionally the bride's family makes the call, but Marc supposes he'll consider Eva's opinion as a courtesy.

-/

Everyone is gathered in the Hangar. Amanda is literally dragging some Warlock in by the arm, one she knows from the very unofficial SRL league that's started up since the war. At no point - according to what Hawthorne's heard - has this "contest" ever had reasonably fair judging. Amanda brings in anyone she can find to judge the upper echelon's holiday sweater choices.

Suraya slips in late, managing to creep around Amanda to sit on a sparrow frame that's unoccupied near her workspace. It's as close as she'll get to one of those death traps without the fate of humanity at stake. Her shopping, set beside her on the ground, shimmers away. She barely catches the culprit, but manages to murmur a kind word of gratitude before meeting Zavala's gaze across the open space. His gaze dips for just a second, refocusing on her face a blink later.

His Ghost appears beside her for a moment once more, quick, like a dragonfly. Her shell spins, nearly silent.

"He says you look good."

Suraya hums. "Thanks. I'd say the same for him but I can't even see his sweater for everyone crowded in front of him."

The white-shelled droid chitters with a small laugh. "He planned it that way," She says, positioned just beside her partner's significant other's ear. The Shipwright prattles on, judging everyone herself, in addition to those she's rustled up to help her. "He'll ask me next if you found everything shopping."

"I did," Suraya whispers back. "New Monarchy charged me five times market value for Hideo's secret santa present. That was the bottle you transmatted."

Zavala's Ghost scoffs. "That's ridiculous. The Executor will only dump it out-"

"I had them wrap it and confirm the seal before I took it out of the store. I figured I'd try. Even if it's going to blow up in my face."

She hums, pensive. "If nothing else, he'll appreciate your attempt." The Ghost isn't referring to the Executor.

"Yeah. The hatchet will probably never get buried, and that's fine, I don't think he particularly deserves it." She crosses her arms and the Ghost rests on her shoulder, delicate, tentative. "But, maybe we can survive the rest of the winter without warfare at the roundtable."

"I think it'll last for as long as the wine does," She drones, "But you've always surpassed expectations."

Suraya covers the laugh with her hand. "Have I? I think I've come in with the bar set so low-"

"Nonsense." She clicks in a synthesized tone that conveys her annoyance. "You don't give yourself enough credit."

"I think you're biased," Hawthorne states, soft and even.

"And _I_ think I've told you that I've tried very hard to think of every reason why my Guardian shouldn't be with you," She hisses, irritated. It fades quickly. The little bot has had plenty of experience with this; Both her charge and his intended are more similar than they realize. "Why you aren't good enough. And I can't."

They fall silent, watching Amanda fuss over Jalaal's very monotone and very personalized holiday threads. Figures he'd somehow win. They'll never hear the end of it, that's for sure. He'll be asking Eva for depressing decorations in black and gray next.

Barely audible, the Ghost whispers, "No one knows him like I do."

Like clockwork that blue gaze falls over them. Though there's no smile, the spark in those luminous eyes is obvious. Something about the two of them finding common ground, even if it's just over him (it isn't) brings him joy.

Hoarsely, Suraya replies, "I know."

The Ghost shivers. "But I could say the same for you," She imparts, honest. Where many Ghosts seem cute or shy by nature, Zavala's is regal and confident, a counterbalance for the hidden doubt and anxiety lurking beneath the Commander’s stoic facade. "I'm grateful."

"Me, too."


	7. Snowed In

This plan might be the oldest of all those pertaining to this year's Dawning Holiday. Excluding traditions, of course. It's one they're both looking forward to. Something about the Farm speaks to them both. For Suraya, it’s a home of sorts, a place where she’d found her footing and risen into the kind of person she hopes inspires others to do what’s right. To Zavala, it’s a place that reminds him of the strength and resolve of humanity. From the weakest babe to the woman beside her, there is always hope. It’s why humanity has made it this long.

Their flight from the Tower to the Farm is uneventful right down to the winter weather. Zavala has never minded the cold and has always admired the snow. Light and fluffy, snowflakes fall from graying clouds. Beside him, Suraya eyes the sky warily.

"What's wrong?" He asks her. She does not look away from the horizon.

Her lips pull to the left, relaying her concern as she muses, “There’s a storm coming.”

“Nothing’s on radar,” Zavala’s Ghost chimes in over the radio, having integrated with the system in order to pilot the ship for them. “I checked before we left.”

“No offense,” She says, and she truly, does not mean to offend the droid, “But I lived out this way for over a decade. The skies look like this before they drop snow.”

“It’ll be fine,” The Ghost says. “A couple centimeters of snow won’t hurt anyone.”

“It won’t be just a few centimeters,” Suraya counters. “Believe me. One time I saw five meters of snow in two days. I was in this old stable and had to hop out from the loft.”

“It won’t be that bad,” Zavala says, though she can see him checking the sky as if he’d be able to glean something from it. 

She doesn’t doubt he has some knowledge - after all, the guy gives most Warlocks a run for their money, but this is more practical application combined with instinct than something read in a book or archived on vanNet.

Resisting the urge to point out that this is her area of expertise, that these are her lands, her sky (well, it’s not hers, but... they’ll see), Suraya turns her gaze back to the clouds and watches the horizon fade from soft gray to a stern graphite.

-/

“I’m surprised you didn’t turn around,” Tyra says, when they land. “There’s a storm coming in.”

Suraya fixes Zavala with a knowing look - something just a smidge softer than an ‘I told you so’ - and steps forward to embrace Tyra. “You know how it is,” She says, and the old Cryptarch laughs, her voice like a bell as her arms come around the Clan Stewardess in a long overdue hug.

"Do I ever," She replies into Suraya's ear, but her smart, glowing eyes find Zavala's as she says it. To his credit, the stoic facade doesn't so much as shift. He maintains eye contact.

When she steps back from Suraya, she offers him a smile. He's not one for hugging on the job. She won't force him into one. "Everyone here has been looking forward to your visit."

"I'm sure that's an exaggeration," Suraya muses.

Tyra leads them past familiar sights, into the patched up domicile she uses as her base of operations. "Nonsense. I don't suggest you go about trying to usher any of the Hunters back to the City, but-"

"Hunters?"

Hawthorne lays a hand on his forearm. It's neither hot or cold, just a pressure over the plating of his pauldron. "Whoa there, Commander. Don't get any ideas."

Tyra's milky gaze meets his, "A lot of the Hunters use our outpost as their base of operations. With the storm coming, it'll likely be a full house tonight."

"You've been keeping tabs on them?" Zavala asks, curious. "Ikora and I have not seen many of them, only the ones with a dedicated team tend to stay around the Tower."

She nods. "We do what we can. They usually pass through here or the EDZ, so Devrim lets me know if anything seems amiss and we report it to Suraya."

Zavala's inquisitive gaze trails to his partner for this little day trip with no less than a little awe bleeding through. Tyra laughs warmly, catching it from the corner of her eye.

"Of course, we don't account for that many of the Hunters, just a lot of the ones who were stationed on Earth leading up to the Red War."

"That's still a large number of them," Zavala crows back.

"Perhaps. It's all we can do to feed and house them overnight. This weather should do a bit for us, though I'd suggest laying low. If any of them think you might drag them back to the Tower with you, they might brave the storm." She motions for them to sit on the threadbare sofa - it's covered with a vibrant mismatching of fabrics - while she sees herself to the tiny kitchen.

Suraya shrugs. "I think I can keep him from rounding up any lost souls," She jests. "He'll have his hands full making sure I don't take off the second his back is turned."

Zavala makes a dramatic show of rolling his eyes. Sedately, he drolls, "And here I thought that was the one thing I could be sure of."

An elbow meets his side. They share a glance - a loaded one - while Tyra fixes tea. Her Ghost hovers silently beside her, facing the sitting area, allowing her to see everything.

-/

"It forms over the Shard," She shouts to him as the snow turns from fluffy soft flakes that drift in a barely-there wind to heavy, sharp-seeming precipitation that dances in a tempest's gale. Her cheeks are pink, and though the wind fights her every step she moves faster to reduce her time exposed to the elements. "It's not much different than a mountain, but the latent electrical impulses seem to make it worse, almost."

Zavala hums in acknowledgement; It's lost in a particularly brutal gust that blows back Suraya's hood.

The second they're inside the barn, she exhales heavily, breathing a bit harder from exertion and cold. "Well," She says, looking at the mostly empty space. She draws her arms around herself while he slides the door closed behind them. "This brings back memories."

"It does," He agrees, stepping around her to approach the battered workbench turned war-table. "I can practically feel my ears blistering from you ranting at me."

"Hurt your feelings that badly?" She questions coolly.

He bites back a smile, keeping his back to her as he runs his hand across the wood. "Not so much. You," He shakes his head, allowing himself the slightest modicum of a laugh, "Saw right through me in a way I never thought someone could."

She shrugs, not moving from the door as he rounds the table to stand at its head. "Honestly I'm surprised Ikora didn't drop me where I stood, last time we were here."

"She disliked that you were right almost as much as she disliked that I agreed that you were right," Zavala informs her. "People take time to come around."

"But they do," Suraya supposes, shivering. "I mean, look at us."

He abandons his place at the table to wrap his arms around her, staving off the chill with a silent wink of solar energy. Cool lips find her equally cool forehead when she ducks into the embrace, savoring the warmth.

"Y'know, I always thought we'd end up getting ourselves in trouble in here," She mentions as she pulls back. He looks down at her wry grin and raises one eyebrow in an arch that should be illegal.

"I don't think so, Suraya."

"I doubt anyone's coming in here looking for us, y'know…"

"I think I can live with their assumptions," He informs her, deadpan.

That shakes her out of her playful tone immediately. "What assumptions?" Her eyes narrow. "Explain."

"You know which assumptions." He looks away, suddenly finding interest in the table. "Plenty of the Guardians here assumed we were-" He coughs.

"Go on," She goads, the smirk evident in her tone.

"Suraya…"

"I know, I know." She tilts his head back to face her, cupping his cheeks and jaw with gun-worn hands. "I know, I know. How could we have become friends, much less _this_ ," She smiles, and though she's not someone he'd call sweet, this smile definitely is. Her eyes hold his in a way that makes breathing a conscious decision, "If we were only talking war strats and fighting about morals we already shared, right?"

This time, his laugh is low and smooth, richer and more decadent than a chocolate cake. "They underestimate us," He informs her. "I won't be doing anything terribly inappropriate at this table," He informs her, maintaining that serious expression that seems to be his default. She knows better, though. "But I would very much like to kiss you now."

"By all means," She removes her hands from his face and locks them behind his neck just in time for him to close the space between their lips.

-/

"There is no way we're getting off the ground. Maybe if we'd left before we checked in with the troops but even then, it would've defeated the purpose in coming here."

Zavala looks to the sky. Suraya isn't stupid, she knows he's talking to his Ghost.

"It's not safe to pilot a ship," One of the officers informs them. "We've grounded everyone for the time being. Too many ships will be coming in, it won't be safe to send anyone out in this weather."

"I am certain my Ghost could-"

"Sir, I don't doubt you or your Ghost's abilities," The man looks sheepish, he doesn't take his eyes off the satellite report projected in front of him, "It's everyone else I'm worried about."

"You'd have Amanda close down the hangar if it got this bad," Suraya reminds him.

Zavala groans, no doubt thinking about all the work he has left to do. "I'll inform Ikora," He says, and shuffles out of the command center. It's still the dilapidated house with the too-large antenna on top of it, but the inside has been reinforced quite nicely, Suraya thinks.

"You made the right call," She says to the officer, watching as his posture eases. "He'll get over it, he doesn't know how to not be busy," She jokes. "Let me know if you guys need anything, okay?"

The soldiers all agree, and she sees herself out to the elements.

Tyra's house is warm, and she sidles past Zavala, who is murmuring quietly to Ikora through his Ghost, to join the Cryptarch in her study. There are candles lit as this room does not have working power. It isn't a necessity; Tyra can likely read in the dark thanks to her heritage (Suraya remembers Zavala suggesting something similar of his own eyesight), but it's a cozy, intimate touch.

"He doesn't know when to quit," Tyra says, without looking up.

Suraya drops into a chair adjacent to the older woman. "He means well."

"He does." She closes her book. "Devrim said you two are close," The skin around her eyes crinkles. "Partners in more ways than one."

"Devrim didn't say anything. You're supposing."

"I am not," She rasps, bringing a warm cup of tea to her mouth. "I'm quite secure in what I know."

"Oh?" Suraya crosses one leg over the other. "Which is what?"

Tyra levels her with an all-knowing gaze. "He loves you."

Suraya tells herself it's the swell of the Cryptarch’s Light that makes her blush, she's close to her, can feel the latent heat on her cheeks. She swallows, but doesn't make a sound. When he says it, it sounds right. She knows it, feels it in her soul. When other people say it on his behalf, it's strange.

"Yes?"

The Clan Stewardess sighs. "We're keeping it under wraps," She tells Tyra. "Of course Dev knows, and plenty of other people, too, but this isn't something I want the world involved in."

Setting her mug aside, Tyra asks, "And if they do find out? It's only a matter of time. Though I pride myself on my curiosity, others are far more inquisitive with significantly less tact."

"There's a difference between people knowing and people being involved. I'm not-" She huffs. "People are going to find out. I'd invite you back for the holiday - we're having a fancy dinner-thing, but I know you'd just turn me down."

"You're right," Tyra agrees, "Though I heard Saladin will be joining you. You'll have to give him my best. Two old coots at a party is one too many, and I have people here I'd like to spend time with. I'll leave him to oversee affairs. Though I would like to meet Marc one of these days, provided you could get him here."

"I'd have to drug him to get him outside the City gates." They laugh.

"I think I could send you something to help with that. Devrim deserves to see him more, don't you think?"

Suraya can't help but agree. She ignores the lingering pang at not being able to see him. She hadn't been kidding about sneaking away. She was intending to go visit him, but the weather wasn't something she wanted to contend with. On the other side of the Shard, the EDZ was likely free and clear of precipitation, but the inclimate weather at the Farm could prove fatal if one wasn't prepared (and Suraya couldn't say she was). She'd have to make another go of it, visiting her other parent once the rest of her schedule cleared, after the holiday festivities were over. Maybe they'd be able to work something out to get Devrim home for a long weekend, anything.

A creak in the floorboards breaks her train of thought. Zavala lingers in the doorway.

"Ikora said she'd handle everything until we return, but from what the Tower's sat-feeds are saying, we'll be here likely until mid-day tomorrow."

"Well, good thing we planned on feasting tonight," Tyra quips, looking to the Commander. "I'll see what we can do about finding you two a place to stay."


	8. Only One Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one ventures into mature, mildly smutty territory towards the middle. Please be forewarned if that's not your cup of tea.

Belatedly, they both should have seen this coming. Tyra was practically overjoyed at the prospect of having them spend the night at the Farm, and while she's not a frigid woman, she's never particularly full of glee quite like she's been since she'd sent them to have a drink while she worked on lodging. **  
**

Now, looking at the room she had prepared - or perhaps prepared herself, one could never quite tell - it was obvious why. Neither of them would consider this in the top twenty worst accommodations they’ve ever had, Traveler knew they’d been forced into far worse situations.

"There's only one bed," Zavala intones in that smoothstone tone of his that wars between concerned and disbelieving.

"An astute observation," Tyra chimes, smirking. "It's the only space we have to spare that's not out with the chickens." She puts both hands on her hips. "Will it be a problem?"

Suraya, feeling brave, says "No," at the same time Zavala exhales an incredulous, "Yes."

They exchange a look. Suraya appears visibly betrayed. Zavala, mortified.

Tyra pats the Commander's shoulder. "I know who's sleeping with the chickens," She says, solemn. Hawthorne’s look turns to one of terror - not true fear, but more of an overwhelmed cross between emotional outburst and social anxiety - and she turns on her heel, exiting the small loft-like bedroom, clomping down the stairs and out the door without a word.

“You should go after her,” Tyra advises.

“I should not,” Zavala answers, his shoulders staying wound tight. He knows better than to corner his flighty partner when she’s feeling… well, flighty. Exposed is probably more apt. Tyra removes her hand when she feels him tense, lost in his thoughts. “I don’t know what you were thinking,” He continues, a moment later. “What gave you the impression that this was an obvious - and acceptable - conclusion?” He hisses.

“Oh, calm down, Zavala,” She says, in an unimpressed tone that reminds him she’s dealt with conflict from far scarier men - he’s a gentle breeze compared to the stoked flame that is Saladin Forge. “I got the impression you might be a little more overt about it, considering-”

“Tyra,” He warns, voice dipping dangerously low. There it was, she thought. There’s the Wolf’s influence.

She steps back, raising her hands non-threateningly though she’s hardly balking at his attempted intimidation. “For what it’s worth, this _is_ the last available bed at the inn, if you will. There isn’t actually any room with the chickens. The Guardians out there are coming in in droves.” She turns to go down the stairs, calling over her shoulder, “So you might want to make up fast. It’s going to be cold, and I’m not sure that furnace worked even before the collapse.” The mischievous sparkle in her eyes is back in full force.

“You’re incorrigible,” He mutters, sighing.

That stops her on the top step. “Yes, well, forgive an old woman for her excitement.” That knowing, pale gaze is back, boring into his own bright eyes.

“You’re looking at me like that’s not the only thing you want to say.”

She pats him on the shoulder when he inevitably approaches, intending to follow her downstairs and to wherever Suraya’s undoubtedly gone to sulk. “No, it’s not. But the walls have eyes and ears around here.” They make it down the stairs and she jerks her thumb towards the door. No doubt he can trace her bootprints despite the rapidly falling snow. “Your secrets are mine to know and ours to keep, hm?”

He spares her a mildly thankful glance - there’s still a trace of exasperation in it, it roils off him despite his best attempt otherwise - and heads out into the storm.

There’s always been a wariness about her, about Suraya. He’s worked hard, harder than he cares to admit to break that emotional armor away - if not to the rest of the world, then just when it comes to him - and it hurts to feel that edge, see that mask slip back into place. She knows when he enters the barn-turned-cantina. Like he knows where the Reef is in the night sky by feeling alone, she knows when he enters a room. It’s got nothing to do with latent abilities and more to do with instinct - it’s a skill, and an impressive one at that - but it backfires in times like these, because she can pull in on herself before he so much as says a word or lays eyes on her.

Three Hunters sit with her, chatting amiably about their patrols, about the lay of the land, about the decrease in Fallen activity around the Farm. None of them sense anything amiss, but he can see it in her posture. She leans forward like she’s interested, but her head is tilted his direction, waiting to hear if he’ll speak.

She does not get up when he passes by her, does not react when every wayward Hunter in the area flinches at the sight of him. Doesn’t run. For her, that’s practically acceptance. And he does hope she understands. No, it’s not really a secret. It will be even less of a secret if she-

“Commander,” The Frame greets amiably, “Can I offer you refreshment?”

“Two,” He says, and the frame makes a beep of approval, serving him without question.

If the Hunters are uneasy when he came in, the trio sitting with her are a hair’s breadth from fleeing when he sits down beside her, passing over a mug full of ale to replace her half-drank water.

“No way we’re going anywhere tonight,” He supposes aloud, casually. He takes a solid pull of his own. “I figure we could use a drink, too.”

She looks over at him, surprised, but can’t keep the irritated glower on her face for very long. The incredulous looks of the Hunters at the drinking (as if the man had never had ale in his long, long life) Commander makes her smile. She picks up the mug and pushes it his direction in a silent toast, an all-clear he can recognize as an acceptance of his gesture for forgiveness. She drinks a bit more than what he’s managed to gulp down of his own. It’s an invitation for a challenge he’s not willing to indulge so early in the day (even if it’s nearly evening and they really aren’t going anywhere) thanks to the weather. He is still the Commander, he should retain some composure.

The conversation continues. Something about bears - Suraya shudders - and then the conversation shifts to Salzwerk, the Salt Mines, and inevitably Devrim. One of them had the pleasure of delivering him a care package recently, and he seemed to really enjoy it. Judging by the wrap, the gift had been from Eva, for the Dawning, but they hadn’t stayed long enough to discover what was within. Glimmer mining drills were - well, not all the Fallen were as well behaved, even with outside forces at work to encourage the opposite.

She jerks when his hand finds hers, her eyes darting to his in unmasked astonishment. The Hunters have flagged over a Titan who’s come in covered in snow. They’re too preoccupied commenting on the ‘tin man’ - it’s not his fault that snow sticks to plasteel with ease when one’s using solar to keep warm beneath it all - to notice that their fingers are intertwined on the table top. Obviously. Openly.

Zavala leans in inconspicuously. “Too much?” He asks, barely a whisper in her ear.

By ‘too much’ he means ‘is this what you were going for, before?’ He means that he’s willing to take the step, but he needs the assurance, too. Before it was just Tyra, and now there are more people around, but the sentiment is the same. Being open about their relationship with Tyra is not nearly as big of a step, but neither of them, despite their attempts otherwise know how to do things in half measures. 

She shakes her head and pushes a touch closer. “I’ll let you know if it is.” She exhales, though, “The Tower will know by dawn,” She muses, shaky. Offering him an out.

He doesn’t want one. Confidently he murmurs, “The Tower has known for a long time. It will be old news before long.”

She smirks, emboldened, releasing his hand in lieu of ducking to pull his arm around her shoulders. Half the informal bar looks at them, but she takes another pull of her beer and greets the new Titan as though nothing has happened. Zavala's grip on her tightens to something familiar and comfortable. They're not on duty, considering, and this is as PDA as it will get. Eventually the rest of the room goes with it and the world keeps turning, uninterrupted. 

Though… the Tower knows before supper.

And it has nothing to do with Tyra’s Ghost sending a picture to the usual suspects (Devrim, Eva, Amanda, and recently, Saladin) at their Guardian’s request. She stays silent, lingering beneath the heater beside the door. Smiling.

-/

Her teeth are chattering by the time they make it back into the house turned storage-space that will be their lodging for the evening. She trudges up to the little loft-style apartment space and discards her armor and weapons on the table with the practiced ease he's come to relish. 

She might not be a true Hunter, but there's something thrilling about watching her pull an errant knife or three from concealed locations with dexterous fingers.

"Your City is making me soft," She huffs quietly in the dark. “I swear I’d never have been cold before.” The white of the still-falling snow - she really feels for those tasked with shoveling - keeps it just bright enough to see. Zavala lights a candle anyway, not bothering to remove his armor just yet. Instead, he looks at the small bed - a luxury for one, close quarters for two - and then at the rattling window.

He turns back to her. " _Our_ City is not." He reaches for the straps of his armor. "It is colder atop the Walls."

"Maybe when the wind blows," She scoffs. "But everything is heated, and there's electricity. Both our tablets are dead."

"That has little to do with us," Zavala reminds her. It's more to do with the several hundred messages pouring in because of the sixty Guardians who sought shelter from the storm at the Farm, somewhere around a third of them couldn't keep their mouths shut. "Frankly a break from electronic devices is rather enjoyable. Even with innumerable outages, I can’t escape my handheld for long."

"Go cut me a tree then and light a fire in the fireplace."

"Suraya, the chimney probably hasn't been cleaned in decades."

She shrugs. He moves onto the armor that shields his legs, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I am not risking it, and I will not be chopping down any trees in this weather. You'll have to make due."

She sighs. "Only if you do the thing."

He smirks. Coyly, he asks, "What 'thing?'"

"You know. Like earlier."

By that she means she'd like him to turn up the Solar Light and keep her warm. So far that's her favorite practical application of Light, though he's watched enough Crucible with her to know she's also got a thing for thundering fists.

It has nothing - he swears it doesn't - to do with the few… impractical applications of Arc Light he's demonstrated to her.

A gentle, almost probing warmth tumbles out from him and she exhales in relief, shucking her pants and poncho without a second's thought, leaving her in thermal undergarments that cling to her skin. He eyes her approvingly and motions to the expanse of bed beside where he sits.

"Are you heating the blankets?"

"No." True to form they aren't warmed, but they're hardly cold thanks to his latent warmth. She peels them back and slides into the bed. When she reaches down to pull them up over her, Zavala takes her hand and brings it to his lips. His eyes find hers and hold her gaze even as he backs up to close and lock the door to the small bedroom. It's hardly a failsafe, the door barely stays on its hinges, but it's privacy enough.

She swallows hard at that saphire gleam in his eye. "I can't believe you," She says. "You told her you didn't want to stay in this bed and now you think I'm just going to-"

"I know," He interrupts, his voice low, practically a rumble that comes from his chest.

"You know," She repeats, trying and failing to stay deadpan. She knows what's coming, knows that there's about to be a very very lovely contrast between the cold lingering in the room and his Light. “You know I’m going to what, exactly?”

He takes care not to touch her skin when he gets close to her, instead very carefully peeling off what garments remain. The control he has over his abilities is maddening. She didn't know much about the Light other than it let Ghosts do their thing and turned mostly dead people (she's heard legends, okay?) into immortal children (a generalization that does not apply to the man before her) with flashy abilities. She's since learned that not too many of them can harness all three branches of the Light.

Which is why when he hauls her against him, thick fingers finding her wrists, touching her pulse points, turning her around so that his front touches her spine, his arms come around her back, she melts into it. It's like sinking into a hot spring, a soothing, warm balm that makes her head swim and her body feel light.

One hand snakes under her arm, around her front to press against her abdomen, to push her possessively against him and she groans in a combination of sudden relaxation and submission that's undoubtedly rare - if he is a lion, she is a lioness: they are an even, balanced match - and leaves him chuckling low and smooth into her hair, his nose pressed against her left ear.

"Take your clothes off, you bastard," She moans, in a near-whine that's muddled by sudden, overwhelming arousal. He knows this makes her weak, begrudgingly so. He always knows what she needs, be it the cold tang of Void, the hypersensitivity of Arc's lightning, or this: Solar flames - a battle hearth that warms her very soul.

"That worked up already? I'm hardly touching you." He steps back anyway to do as she demands (he knows it's not a suggestion) and she gasps at the loss of heat, gooseflesh erupting across her arms and legs, almost painful for how quick it is.

He disrobes with efficiency, wrapping her up in a hug that's meant more to share warmth than it is to be sensual. Though when his Light-warmed palm cradles the top of her spine, fingers fanning out to protect her neck, she leans back into his touch, eyes strikingly serious though her posture is loose.

She's not good at expressing her emotions. She knows what love is, she tells him - not often, but he knows - that she loves him. But it's different. The way she looks at him right now says she wants to be closer. She wants to kiss him but she's putty in his hands, she'll follow him down whatever path he chooses. To be fair when she's not this pliant, she still looks at him this way. But it's scrappy, points taken from each other bit by bit until it all boils over, overflows.

He doesn't kiss her hard. He doesn't have to. She responds eagerly and those sharp eyes slam shut as she pushes forward chin first to meet him. He dips out for only a second, sinking down to her thighs to bar an arm and let her rise up against him.

A singular glance from him sparks another candle. She tilts her head away from his face at the sound of it sparking, letting out a chuff of amusement. He keeps his face against her cheek, forehead go her temple, breathing her in.

"The bed will squeak," He muses quietly. It’s a pet peeve of his. Raunchy, in a way. Suraya dislikes that it makes her self-conscious, too. In this situation she has no reason to be.

“There’s no one below us. We can be grateful for that, at least.”

“I guess,” He muses, adjusting his hold so that she’s not uncomfortable when he dips down to the bed, her astride him. It lurches, creaking, as if surprised at the sudden occupation and he winces.

“Close your eyes,” She says, her eyes narrowing in a smile that doesn’t move her lips. “Don’t think about it.”

“I cannot,” He says, though he listens. He pants when her hand drifts down his abdomen, touches featherlight, teasing. “It will ruin the-” Her hand wraps around his length, thumb gently swiping at the tip and he exhales, the thought leaving him in a hurry.

“I highly doubt that. What if I give you something else to think about?”

“Like?”

“Lay back,” She says, licking her lips when his eyes inevitably open. “We’ll just have to go slow,” She suggests as though she’s used to being the voice of reason (in a less charged situation, it’d be far more amusing). “Be careful.”

“That is the exact opposite of what I want to do.”

“Well, if I ride you as hard as you’d like me to, I’m pretty sure they will hear us. Especially when you-” His hands find her ass out of instinct, fingers fanning across her cheeks and squeezing appreciatively. He grins, fingers scrawling sunny heat trails up her back.

“What can I say?” He asks when she pants into the touch, rocking over him, her thighs flexing to keep the motion tight and prevent the sound she knows will irritate him. “I’d hate for you to do all the work.”

“Unless I tie you to the bedpost.”

His eyes blow open wide, pupils dilating as he thinks about it. “No. Terrible idea.”

She laughs, fingers covering her mouth. “Another time. Maybe a bed that won’t give under the strain.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” He says, breathing unsettled by another teasing rock of her folds against his cock. He shifts carefully, taking in the candlelit image of her golden brown skin, dusky nipples, letting his hands drift forward, guiding her in a more urgent, friction-filled rock against him that leaves them both a little short of breath.

She pulls his hands up, letting the lingering warmth drift up her belly to her breasts, shifting closer so he can tease while she reaches back to stroke him. “I’m-” He tweaks her right nipple and she breaks off in a breathy sigh that makes his lips quirk ever so slightly. She grips his hands again, forcing him to squeeze her breasts in lieu of paying more attention to their sensitive peaks. “Let me finish,” She chides, with a particularly tantalizing drift forward. “Let’s start like this, and then you can do what you want.”

“What I want?”

She looks around the room, as if it holds the secrets of the universe, then back to him, dark eyes chock full of amusement. “I thought you’d want to finish things the way we started, y’know, you standing, hands-” She trails off. His lips part, but no sound passes them. She gives him a second to think about exactly what she knows he wants - the solution to a creaky bed is not to bother with the bed - then continues, “But we don’t have to. I’m fine with this,” She continues, lining him up, slowly, carefully fucking herself open on him, already warm and wet and very clearly wanting.

“Suraya.” His voice is husky. 

“Zavala,” She replies, knowing damn well she’s got him. She rocks once, maddeningly slow now that they’re joined. 

“Get down here,” He rumbles. She smirks as she obliges, spine rounding as she leans over him, casting the planes of his naked body in shadow.

Outside, the snow carries on, wind whistling in sharp pitches as it rattles the window. Inside, it only gets hotter as the night goes on. 

-/

Tyra doesn’t say anything when Suraya slips across the Farm at first light. The snow had only stopped maybe an hour earlier, much to the relief of the crews who had been shoveling and plowing workable paths between the main buildings all night. She lets the younger woman freshen up, making tea and leaving a steaming mug for the younger woman.

“Have fun last night?”

“It was nice not to be on duty,” Suraya answers honestly.

Tyra huffs. “You couldn’t at least pretend it’s a walk of shame? Let an old woman have her fun?”

Suraya sinks into a chair, kicking off her boots to curl up, using the sleeves of her poncho to buffet the heat coming off the chipped china. “You set us up.”

“And you’re welcome,” The Cryptarch says with a smirk. “You certainly looked cozy enough last night,” Her eyes sparkle in amusement. “I’m not asking for details, but you could at least tell me if you slept well?”

To that, the Clan Stewardess smiles, lips hidden behind her mug and eyes trained on its depths. “Honestly, I didn’t sleep much.”

Tyra’s eyebrows rise almost to her hairline, and she thanks the Traveler she wasn’t trying to take a sip of her own beverage. “That’s… ah, good.”

“Yeah.” Suraya agrees. “Worth it, at least.”

“Alright, that’s my limit,” Tyra intones, mischief lingering in her eyes.

“You asked,” Suraya chirps. “And I better start getting used to the third degree.”

The Cryptarch’s head tilts to the side, eyes widening in an unspoken agreement. “I’ve certainly been asked enough questions since your tablets so conveniently failed to find a power supply. I took the liberty of charging them for you.”

“You shouldn’t have. Really.”

“Oh, I needed to.” She hands Hawthorne a her tablet. “Tell me what he said!”

“He?”

“You know,” She tuts, “The clown. Rahool says he rubs his nose whenever someone mentions you. He’ll never get over it, and quite frankly, he shouldn’t. Just deserts, it’s time he got his.” Suraya nods, but Tyra can tell she’s not truly convinced. “You don’t think he’d message you?”

“Definitely not. Zavala, on the other hand...” She shrugs.

Trya produces the second tablet. Her eyebrows go up once more. “And you don’t have his passcodes?”


	9. Secrets and Plans

“It sounds like you two had fun,” Ikora says, when Zavala hits command at midday. “Maybe I’ll get snowed in next. Bring a couple good books, some of my nicer teas.” She hands him a datascroll. He’s the one who’s been making the news, the Tower has somehow been strangely uneventful with both its Commander and Clan Stewardess trapped in the elements at their Red War stronghold. She taps a finger to the side of her face before crossing her arms in front of her. “Though, I won’t be exposing any well-contained secrets, leaving my fireteam with the fallout…”

“It was time, Ikora.”

The deadpan expression on her face says she's well aware of that. It's hardly a secret amongst those who knew them best. Still, that didn't mean it would all be smooth sailing. She spares him the lecture on all that, though. No one thinks through their choices quite like the Commander.

Instead, when she speaks, her voice is that weedling, informative alto. “The Arach was quite pleased when the news broke. He went out drinking in your honor. I found him loitering in the Bazaar just before dawn. I believe he meant to wait for the Executor, but," She makes a little sway of her shoulders, "I suggested it might be wise to sleep it off."

“Lovely.”

“Yes. I’m sure our holiday party will be full of Dawning cheer,” She deadpans. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go buy my gift for this week’s soiree.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

She rolls her eyes, but her irritation doesn’t last. “I think you've done enough,” The Warlock muses wryly.

He exhales. Not many would know it as relief; He does not appear to break his composure. But Ikora is not most, and her teasing does not appear kind . "How long will it take them to settle, do you think?"

Ikora turns her head, takes a look around the room. It's empty. "If it was only this, a week. It's hardly new news."

"But?"

Ikora smiles, almost indulgent. "Though plenty of our brood suggests otherwise, my crystal ball doesn't have all the answers. But," She muses, "I don’t need it to know it will certainly be an entertaining new year."

“To say the least,” He answers, a bit exasperated.

There is nothing further to say, and she can see the anxiety of all the work he’s missed by being off the grid last night, so she takes her leave. After all, she does have to buy a present for the gift exchange. But she’s been tasked with acquiring another gift as well.

While Ikora did not often appreciate being made the messenger, in this case, she's happy to oblige. She, like most Guardians, had somewhat of a soft spot for Amanda. More than that, however, Ikora had a true friend in Sloane. 

The last few years have been hard. For everyone. Sometimes, she struggles with it still, the emotions she cannot name or express beyond disgruntled behavior toward her Ghost. This year, she's trying. She can't say she'll be the most jazzed up person, or filled with the holiday spirit, but she's going to make an attempt to find joy.

Mortality frightens her, even as immortal as she is. And with the darkness - the threat of another Great Disaster, a second collapse - seemingly approaching, the best way to combat such a thing is with joy. More aptly, hope.

But she cannot waste time thinking about this now. It is what it is. There is much to be done. Sloane had asked her to find a gift for Amanda, a decoy. Only two people on the Tower's staff knew she'd be returning. That plan was not terribly intricate, it just hinged on keeping Zavala and Amanda in the dark. The latter was difficult right up until she left for the holidays. A present would distract her, somewhat.

Ikora had considered routing Sloane through the Farm, but she didn’t want eyes on her if it could be helped. Considering the prior evening’s events, word travelled too fast. This close to the Dawning’s zenith, any hasty moves would be largely obvious. In fact, she’s thankful for the warm cloak she’s wearing to conceal her identity as she browses the Tower’s market. 

Years of listening to Cayde talk about his apology gifts for Amanda when he inevitably broke something or otherwise failed to be on the good side of a bet and didn’t have quite enough glimmer to back it up lent enough fuel for presents for the young Shipwright. She liked very specific, very homebrewed liquor, lightning-in-your-veins coffee, and anything that might be more illegal than street-certified when it came to her sparrows. Sloane would err on the side of legal, she thinks, shoving thoughts of her lost friend into the back of her mind. But Sloane would approve of - and likely partake in - some small-batch moonshine from a distillery that had just recently regained its footing following the War. 

That settled, the Warlock had her heading. She only needed to find something appropriate for Hawthorne.

-/

The days leading up to the end of the year - work-wise - are far more busy than Zavala anticipates. Before, he’d bring home his work, catch up with it while sipping tea, then spend the rest of his time crocheting or reading for leisure, maybe having a pint with Shaxx or Cayde, indulge the latter in a few hands of poker while Ikora sipped wine and laughed at his inevitable loss in a quiet celebration of the year to come. The workflow with two Vanguard instead of three has slowly runoff into manageable territory, but it’s Sloane that helps him with what he has left to do. Sloane, who always comes through when he needs her.

This year, he enlists her help early. Despite the fact that she has no real plans, and Titan’s celebration growing smaller each year with Guardians being called back from their rainy outpost, he does not want to monopolize her time, and would stress about things done if he’d left for the holiday and she still had his work to do. After all, this year, the last five days of the formal holiday - the time in which the Consensus is in recess, and its representatives are granted leave - are to be spent with Suraya.

“I don’t miss being dragged into those awful parties,” She tells him, when they’re amiably co-existing in a video conference. She reads through a report, double checks his numbers on a tablet and sends the raw data back to him with her approval.

“They do leave a bit to be desired.”

“Amanda told me Jalaal was up to something with the gift exchange,” She imparts in a quieter, less formal tone.

Zavala sighs. “Well, when is he not?” He sets aside the stack he’s been sifting through - it’s nothing that will be sorted before the end of the year and therefore not worth his valuable time. He reaches for the bottle of beer that sits upon a coaster near his workstation, taking a pull of it.

This, since the war, was the closest to ringing in the holiday they could manage. It was a private arrangement between the two of them. Both Zavala and Sloane made themselves unavailable and dedicated an hour or two to discussion, wrapping up their yearly reports and wishing each other good fortune and a happy Dawning in the way good friends did. 

“I do regret that I spent the majority of my resources on getting Devrim home for the holidays. I would have liked to get you here as well, have this-” He sloshes his half-full beer for emphasis, “In person.”

“Yeah well,” She trails off, mumbling something, ending with a hasty swig of her own. “Wait.” She looks into the feed directly, the lines around her eyes crinkling as she looks at him, incredulous. “You got Devrim to come home?”

“Ah,” He shrugs. “I wanted to surprise her.”

“You said-”

“It’s surprise one of two,” Zavala elaborates, a secretive smile gracing his usually expressionless lips for just a moment. “If you know what I mean.”

“Wait, Suraya said she didn’t tell you.” Sloane stares at him. “Did Ikora? There was no way-”

Zavala’s blue gaze snaps up to hers and she resists the urge to gulp under his scrutiny. They are talking about two very different things. Two _very_ different things, she realizes.

“Ah, forget it, Sir. It’s nothing.”

“Sloane...” That wheedling tone makes her sigh, but she does her best to be strong. It’s supposed to be a surprise. She can’t- “It’s unlike you to keep secrets,” He says and she groans.

“I can’t tell you. Please don’t-”

“Ages of battle. Centuries of having each other’s backs both on and off the battlefield.” He tilts his head, fixing her with a stare she’s never been able to resist and he knows.

“Commander, this is cruel.”

He inspects his fingernails, glancing back up at the camera as though he’s looking into his deputy’s soul. “I assure you, this is not cruel. Your guilt is of your own design.”

“I-” She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. It’s a losing battle. She just has to hope he doesn’t ruin everything, thereby making Suraya furious with her. “When do you see Amanda next?”

“She is meeting us at Marc and Devrim’s home tomorrow afternoon. With the party tonight, I doubt I’ll cross paths with her.”

Sloane exhales again. “You’re sure.”

His gaze shifts, expression tipping into concerned territory. “What’s going on? Is something wrong? You’re not-”

The Deputy Commander looks scandalized that he’d even suggest what that helpless, understanding gaze does with nary a word. “No! Heavens, no!” She’s shaking her head, eyes flicking to her hands - folded in front of her on the table. “We make due, everything’s fine. You know I-” She shakes her head, not wanting to venture into that territory. Still a bit of a conflict of interest, and it’s a subject they treat with care. “Look. Suraya and Ikora did something.” She pauses, trying to parse the words without being terribly blunt. “Together. For Amanda.”

He gestures for her to continue.

“You know, for being the greatest tactician of all time, Zavala, you’re a bit slow on the uptake when it comes to this sort of thing.” She tilts the rest of her beer into her mouth, letting it drop back to the metal table with a loud thunk. His eyes narrow. “I mean no offense, Sir,” She says, venturing back into formalities. “I just thought you’d have figured it out.”

“You’ve been acting strangely since you got on the line. Normally you’d have finished half that case by now-” He looks to the case of beer beside her on the table. She’s only finished one.

She shrugs. “The crew can have them. I’m sure they’ll be grateful for the gift.”

“Sloane?”

Sheepishly, she sighs. “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow?”

-/

Sloane has been on comms with the both of them before. When she’d discovered they were together, purely by coincidence, she’d chalked it up as making sense. She was looking forward to being able to see it in person, to make her own opinions on the matter.

That being said, this is unlike anything she’s ever experienced.

He looks cowed, finally waving her off. His earlier words echo in her head: ‘Ages of battle. Centuries of combat,’ and yet he’s at the mercy of a thirty-something-year-old woman. And that woman has been ranting at him for a solid four minutes now. Zavala is usually done after two, interjecting with a well-thought counter.

“I’ll make every effort to avoid her,” The Commander is saying. “She won’t-”

“She’s been planning to meet us in the morning, just like she’s been meeting at our place every time we go over there. This won’t be any different.” Suraya exhales, shakily. She’s wringing her hands now. Sloane can read the anxiety. More than that, she can read Zavala not knowing how to make him calm.

“I’ll handle this,” Ikora says. “I can make up a shipment she needs to handle. I can ensure sure she doesn’t come near him, Hawthorne.”

She nods to Ikora before swiveling back to Zavala. Sloane cringes at it. “I swear to you, if you blab to her, I’m going to be furious with you. Do you understand?” Suraya’s hands are on her hips, her normally sharp eyes made dangerous, sharpened by kohl liner and dark shadow. She’s dressed in a sweater rather than her poncho, hair mostly slicked back, but a few little wisps frame her face. It’s a striking contrast, though not unpleasant. Between them and facing the video unit, Ikora stands with her arms crossed, stoic. She seems… blank.

Sloane frowns, and Ikora’s eyes sharpen in a way that’s terribly intimidating. Sloane rears back as Ikora regards Suraya, asking, “Does that work for you?”

The Clan Stewardess sighs, finally breaking a very serious staring contest with the Commander. Finally, she says, “If you’re sure, I trust you. This one won’t be leaving my sight until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Poor thing,” Ikora quips back, sarcastic - as if he’d be anywhere else - and when Zavala meets her gaze behind Suraya’s back, the Warlock dips her head in an elegant nod that has seemingly little to do with the conversation at hand. “You two get going. I’ll finish with the techs and meet you at the Core.”

The duo nods. Suraya looks over her shoulder at Sloane on the screen. “I’m not mad,” She says as she parts, and Zavala exhales in relief beside her. “I knew he’d figure it out one way or another. I just… want Amanda to have this, and for him,” She jerks a thumb at Zavala, “Not to beat himself up because he can’t keep anything from her.” A breath later, she revises, “That’s not related to work, anyway.”

When they leave, the automated doors slide shut with a hydraulic whoosh behind them. “How are you going to figure something out for her for the morning this short notice? She said there’s nothing coming in.”

“That was close,” Ikora’s Ghost comments mildly, appearing in motes of Light. “I’m glad you knew that console opened, or she absolutely would have seen it.”

She nods to him, then comments, “You’re correct, Sloane. I’ll need you to trust me.”

“I do, but-”

“It’s been planned for two months now,” Ikora divulges, pulling open a small hatch under the center console. Ophiuchus hovers over her shoulder and transmats whatever is in the drawer into her Vault. It looks like a small box.

“Two months?” Sloane asks, confused. “Zavala said Devrim came home two days ago-”

“Don’t worry about it. It would have been far more last minute, but if it eases Suraya’s anxiety, I’ll tell Amanda tonight.” She turns to her partner. “Let Marc know we’re on our way, please.”

“On it,” Ophiuchus agrees, dipping in a sort-of bow before erupting back into sparks.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing of consequence to you. Suraya has her plan, and Zavala has his.” She smiles. “I’m prepared to intervene personally should Amanda get ahead of herself.” She apprises Sloane, “You just keep up the rouse and try to get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be… something.”


	10. Mistletoe

“I hope you’re not angry with me.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re not the one who blabbed,” She reminds him, seemingly for the hundredth time since they left Command. “Sloane is. And I’ll remind her of that tomorrow.”

He wraps an arm around her. “You’re doing a good thing.”

“Glad you think so,” Suraya hums. “I know I said I’m doing this for Amanda, but-”

“It’s a treat for all of us,” He admits, though he's sure she could have inferred it. “It has been far too long.”

“I know.” She elbows him casually. He turns his head to press a kiss to her temple as she continues, “I’ll try and keep Amanda occupied for a night so you two can catch up.”

“Just find a race. She’ll be fine,” He muses. “Or throw her at Marc. He’s distracting enough.”

Suraya laughs. “Okay.” Upon realizing they’ve reached their destination, his Ghost appears between them, spinning her fins in preparation for transmat.

“You know,” Ghost says, as a very tastefully wrapped parcel appears in Zavala’s outstretched hands, and a classical-styled bag with simple tissue paper sticking out of it appears with the handle across Hawthorne’s palm, “The weather is perfect tonight.” Chittering in Suraya’s direction, she adds, “And there’s no storms on the radar.”

“Listen, if we got snowed in here, he’d be burning through the snow with flaming hammers.” Suraya looks to Zavala. “I’m not kidding.”

“It won’t happen, you heard her.” He nods toward his Ghost. “The Traveler buffets us from the worst of it, especially down here.”

She looks up at the white giant, its fragments making a gentle, lilac-white illuminated orbit through the light snow drifting down from above. “I know,” Suraya agrees, after a moment’s thought. Whatever it is that sobers her gaze, it eases when she looks at Zavala. He's similarly enthralled, and his Ghost takes that as her cue, disappearing from sight, content to let the two of them enjoy whatever malady is to come from this annual holiday celebration.

Suraya steps into the doorway of the Consensus building, just in time to catch Arach Jalaal giving her a brilliant - devious - smile. She scoffs, rolling her eyes and setting her gift on the large table set out for them to do just that. She's afraid to know what's in the black wrapped box with a silver and white bow sitting on the edge of the table, but the rest of the gifts look innocent and polite.

"No snooping," Zavala murmurs in her ear, setting his parcel carefully beside hers.

She purses her lips around the same time the Arach decides to make their presence known.

"If it isn't the happy couple!" He proclaims jovially, opening his arms as though he might embrace them both. He stops just short, taking a great slug of the cup of punch in his hand. "I, for one, have been waiting patiently for this confirmation."

"Happy Dawning," Zavala says, evenly, ignoring the faction leader's commentary otherwise.

"Uh, yeah," Suraya agrees lamely. "I'm gonna," She looks to Zavala who agrees with a single tip of his head, "Yeah. I'm gonna go get us some punch."

"I remember seeing the two of you, not long after you'd arrived at the Farm-"

Ikora seems to materialize at Zavala's side a moment later. "Arach," The Warlock cuts in, interrupting some sweeping narrative she does not care to pick apart for the sake of confirming its validity, "Excuse us."

To his credit, the faction rep lets them go without a fight. Zavala is too distracted to realize that just means he's going after Suraya.

"It's done," Ikora whispers, leaning in close, hand sliding across his back. From afar it looks like a friendly greeting. "I instructed them not to peek."

"Thank you," Zavala replies. "And Amanda?"

"Unhappy with me, but she'll get over it."

Zavala nods. "I trust your methods."

A slender hand pats his arm. "I'll babysit her myself if need be."

"Who are we babysitting?"

The Vanguard duo splits apart in surprise. "Hawthorne," Ikora greets, having rebounded faster. "Just Amanda. She isn't thrilled about the extra work I've given her."

"It'll be worth it," Hawthorne replies, dark eyes flickering between them. She doesn't see how Ikora's tight grip around Zavala's wrist eases and withdraws, hidden behind the dark fabric of the Warlock's robes.

"I agree," Zavala concurs, accepting the punch from Suraya. He takes a sip and winces. "This is absurdly strong."

Reaching a hand toward his cup, Ikora accepts it from him, taking a demure swallow of it. "Ahem. _Wow._ That's blinding." The Vanguard share a glance. "Was Eva in charge of the punch?"

"Are you two chickening out?" Suraya queries. "I thought the goal of this event was to drink ourselves into getting along."

"We already get along," Ikora says. "Last year I might have agreed with you, but I think I'll stick to the wine I know my," She looks to Zavala and pauses, as if gleaning something from his impassive expression. Her expression morphs into surprise. "Not wine?"

"Nope," Suraya answers brightly, already aware of what Zavala's gift to her is. "But if Hideo needs someone immortal to test the poison content of _his_ gift, I'll sign you up. It's good stuff. Certainly stole enough of it when I was younger."

"Suraya."

"Please, it's not like he doesn't know that." She rolls her eyes.

"And you thought that would make for an appropriate gift, how?" Ikora questions.

"I left the receipt in the bag."

"That's horrifically tacky."

"It is," She agrees with her partner, shrugging as she grumbles under her breath, "But considering I paid about half a sparrow for it, he should find it well meaning if not enjoyable at my expense."

-/

As the night goes on, the Arach gets significantly more wound. He manages politely through the gift exchange, only making eyes at Suraya innocently when Zavala pulls out his present - it was not, according to the book jacket anything remotely inappropriate. When the Commander opened said book and recoiled, Suraya mouthed 'bastard,' at him and received a haughty smile in response. Zavala played it off well enough - there was a note on the inside cover of the gag gift that the book thought he'd just received would find its way to him after their recess - and thanked him just the same.

He doesn't completely stalk either Zavala or Hawthorne, either. Instead, he lurks. Constantly. Pretending not to be interested. Pretending to be invested in some conversation with Lakshmi and Hideo about whatever boring things happen within their factions that isn't dangerous to discuss while getting entirely wasted.

It's not Suraya that sits with him first, though, as he expects. She's always gotten along well enough with him, even despite her dislike of the factions. He suspects that's because his group is the most approachable. And the most prepared for their inevitable ruin, even if times like these make him hope it's a long way off.

"Clever idea," Commander Zavala says, joining him at the bar.

Jalaal raises a rocks glass in a casual toast. "It wouldn't be a gift exchange without something a little off-color to lighten the mood. Tried to keep it tasteful, but," He polishes off his drink and waves down the bartender for another, "You know me."

"I'll drink to that, this once," Zavala allows. "As much as it's infuriating, I've always… well, your humor can be as helpful as it is harmful."

Dead Orbit's wipes a fake tear from his eye. "A stirring compliment, Commander." He pulls a face and resumes his not quite brooding expression in short order. "Though I think the real winner is Hawthorne this year."

Near the gift table, there are four glasses, all filled with a modest amount of wine. The conversation is surely stilted, but in the name of the holiday, there is at least a temporary truce between the leaders of both the clans and New Monarchy. The absurdity of if has drawn both Ikora and Lakshmi in, eager to watch the proceedings. 

"Unfortunately, I am certain he is sharing out of fear, not altruism."

"Of course he is." The Arach looks away from the rest of their group, eyeing the Commander from the side. "More witnesses if it's poison. Though, he knows it's not. She bought a vintage with a special seal. It was a smart move."

"She's a smart woman," Zavala counters.

"Well, at least they can discuss the one thing they have in common," Comes the reply. Zavala cringes. It's warranted as Jalaal continues, "Their admiration of you."

"I am certain they will not be discussing that."

"And why not?"

"Hideo has not spoken to me in person since the news broke regarding our relationship."

"I'm sure that's terrible for you," He says with mock pity. "Hawthorne is likely just waiting to-"

Zavala dips his head, contemplative. "She's not going to rub it in his face. I've asked her not to."

"Aw, boo. Where's the fun in that?" Some of his whiskey sloshes over the low rim of the rocks glass when he sets it down. Before long he'll be slurring. "He's known it was coming. Even if he didn't want to, he's not as stupid as he looks with his red hat and what-have-you. Hasn't said a word about wanting you to be his great and righteous sovereign for a while now."

"And that's to do with Suraya?"

"Yes, and no," Jalaal muses. "I'd suspect Suraya was a catalyst. The war has certainly made him consider other options, but, she" He jerks his thumb toward Suraya, "Changes people. Much as it pisses me off, I don't hate her for it. Lakshmi either, though don't tell her I told you."

"I might have assumed," Zavala comments mildly. "Though I suppose I'm a textbook example."

"Nothing wrong with that. Like I told her, you might as well enjoy what you can before-"

The Titan of Titans sighs. "Yes, I know."

-/

"You're being uncharacteristically kind," Hideo says, when Suraya gestures for him to return to their gathering first. It's only coincidence that they'd been out here together.

Hawthorne shrugs, looking down at her hands before meeting his dark stare. As for her kindness, "There's mistletoe in the doorway. I don't think either of us would want to be caught in such a compromising position."

"Likely not," He admits, gruff. Looking up, he spots the small, albeit fake sprig. "Can-" He pauses, as though he knows he doesn't want the answer to the question on his lips. "Can I ask you something?"

She steps back from the doorway, leaning against the wall of the not so narrow corridor that leads to smaller meeting halls and a quiet washroom around the corner. "Sure," She agrees.

"He does not do things by halves," Hideo says gravely, and it's obvious of whom he speaks. "I am not - my personal opinions aside," He manages, frowning. Frustrated, perhaps. "You are certain this is what's right?"

She knows what he's talking about immediately. Her eyes are heavy with the knowledge this conversation is potentially dangerous territory. "For the City?"

"For Zavala."

That's not quite the answer she's expecting, though both eclipse similar issues. Crossing her arms, Suraya purses her lips, chewing the inside of them as she thinks. "I didn't think so, for a long time. I didn't exactly volunteer to come back here, for what it's worth." They exchange a loaded glance. "That's not the point," She exhales, shifting her weight from left to right. "He knew he loved me a long time before I ever thought I caught feelings."

His frown doesn't grow more severe, but his jaw sets into it. "Doesn't that make you wonder if its-"

"Less?" She looks away. "Look, you have a wife, you two are happy enough, from what you say in passing. But you didn't fall in love with each other in the same moment. And a guy like Zavala knows himself. He's been around for eons."

"And he'll be around for eons after you."

"Yeah, probably. That does bother me a little." She waves off what is surely an interruption, clarifying, "Not because I'll get old, but because he'll be lonely again."

"Lonely?"

"Do you understand him?" She shakes her head. “Look. Everybody has these ideas in their head on what he’s about but they don’t know.”

“And you do?”

She tilts her head side to side, considering how to explain. “It’s lonely at the top. Whether it’s a clan or the Consensus or a faction… even a fireteam. I don’t pretend to know it all. But I know what it’s like to be alone because you’re just… different. Whether you chose to be or not.”

Hideo scoffs, “Jalaal insists you two are perfectly matched.”

“Jalaal insists that the world is ending, too, and you don't believe him. Why this? Why let it bother you?”

“Because I know the Commander has feelings for you,” He scoffs. “I see it, but... I just do not understand.”

“Well,” She begins, knowing full well he hasn’t, “Did you ask him?”

Incredulously, Hideo retorts, “Do you really think he would speak to me about something like this?”

“See, that’s exactly it.” She gestures toward him. “You see him as this perfect, be-all, end-all king and he’s not. He’s just trying to leave the world - the system, semantics - better than he found it. He’s just as human as you or me.”

“The Guardians are-”

“Just the same as us,” Suraya growls. “Their lives are longer, and their powers are different, but their mission is exactly the same.” She shakes her head. “Until you wrap your head around that, you’ll never understand.”

“You’re still just as mad as you were all those years ago,” Hideo comments, of her outburst. “I don’t like you, and I don’t support this… relationship.”

“I know you don’t.” She sounds tired. It’s like arguing with a wall with them. Neither side will ever understand the other.

“But," He muses, "I will not impede it.” He ignores her dumbfounded look. “Though, if you do something to jeopardize him, harm him intentionally, or misuse your position to gain power over this City and her people, know that I will not abide it.”

Suraya pushes off the wall, standing toe to toe with him. She gazes into similarly brown black eyes and dips her head in a resolute nod. “I’ll hold you to that, Executor.” She extends a hand.

Though it pains him greatly to do so, in the spirit of the season, Hideo reaches out his own. They will never see eye to eye on much more than survival and spirits (the alcoholic kind, of course), but they can be civil.

Although... it’s highly unlikely the hatchet will stay buried for long.

-/

Later in the evening, when the faction leaders are engrossed in conversations they'll only remember in pieces and the rest of the Consensus staff are warmed by liquor (though not to the same extent), content and comfortable to celebrate the season, Ikora slips out to a balcony to look up at the Traveler, underlit by the holiday lights. The cold does not bother her, for she has been one with the Void for a long time. In fact, she welcomes the sobering chill.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" A voice calls behind her.

She slides over on the bench, patting the space beside her. "Join me?"

"With pleasure," Zavala obliges.

Their Light blurs together ambiently, their Ghosts appearing in small starbursts above their heads before drifting back inside. There's no such thing as privacy between Guardians and Ghosts without effort, but theirs are accustomed to such facts.

"You're fidgeting," Ikora says gently, untangling thick digits draped across his thigh. He squeezes hers when they pull his apart. They're much smaller, nimble and spidery compared to his own. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"Not especially." His shoulders do not hunch, but Ikora leans toward him, so their arms are pressed together. "Anticipation."

"I'd suggest a drink but I'm certain you wish to have your wits about you."

He nods, swallowing hard and returning his gaze to the City, luminous, marble-white, and serene all around them. 

"Cayde would be proud," She says to him, hardly a whisper. "I-I know-"

Zavala removes his hand from hers and pulls her in for a one-armed hug, feeling her inhale sharply once, twice, then regain control over herself. "Of the both of us, I would assume," He revises. "I am not the only one taking steps to secure my happiness."

"Yours are certainly bigger than mine," She presses. "Mine are-"

"Equally as brave, and just as valid," Zavala cuts in, resolute.

She harrumphs, straightening her back and craning her neck to look up at the underbelly of the Traveler. It's easier to wax poetic when she's looking away from his eyes and the unguarded emotion she can see in them. "You're taking a far greater step. I don't know that I'd ever want that," She considers. "But the idea of a family-" She exhales. "I don't know," She laughs, bitter. "I must have had more to drink than I thought." That's a lie. Ikora knows she's drunk. It's why she'd come out here to perk up in the cool air. "After everything, I-"

He rubs the tips of his fingers over the knuckles of her fist. "Do not discredit yourself."

"You sound like Ophiuchus."

One side of Zavala's lips rises in a quick, casual smile. "They know better than we do."

The silence between them is comfortable. Well-worn and familiar, highlighting that blurred line that makes friends into family. And they are. 

Zavala voices it in not so many words. "You have one, you know."

She exhales: slow, calculated and smooth. Her dark eyes find his and she nods, letting him ground her. "Thankfully so." She considers. Changing the subject to something lighter, she tells him, "You know, I'm surprised you thought of a journal.

"I didn't."

"Suraya?"

"Asher."

"You talked to Asher Mir to figure out my Dawning gift?" Ikora shoves him more shocked than playful, and he rocks ever so slightly with the force of it. "You really do like me," She jests.

Zavala doesn't dignify the last part with a response. "He took great pleasure in belittling me while considering, I assure you. I didn't have the heart to tell him I've read his works."

"Even 'Existential Tyranny: Part 7?" When Zavala nods, she snorts, "Even I haven't read that one. Though," Sobering, she supposes, "Likely for the best."

"Besides," He levels with her, "I wanted to give you something useful."

She pats the supple leatherbound book beside her. It's large, and purposefully so, hand pressed to depict meditative circles across both covers and spine. "I will get a great deal of use out of this." The words are thick in her mouth, but emotions be damned, she says them anyway. "Thank you."

The Commander rises, offering a hand to pull her up as well. She takes it without thinking, linking their arms as they rejoin the party.

The loud drone of people is cut sharply by quiet expectation. Ikora huffs with a tiny, quiet laugh. "I don't believe I'm who they'd hoped to catch you under the mistletoe with," She drolls.

Zavala looks up. "That wasn't there earlier."

A quick peek at the Arach explains everything they need to know. Suraya stands beside him, sipping punch, cheeks flushed from intoxication while he whines about how it wasn’t supposed to be this way. She's patting his shoulder, looking rather amused.

"No," Ikora agrees, eyebrows arching up. "It was not."

"Well." He turns to the side and presses a kiss to her cheek, very chaste and tender, "Happy Dawning, my friend." Naturally the hall erupts into ridiculous cat calls and carrying on. 

Ikora smiles politely, rearing back to whisper in his ear, "And allow me be the first to congratulate you."


	11. Dawning Surprise Pt. 1

Zavala rolls over as the sun’s light begins to brighten the horizon, bright eyes opening without the pressing of his Ghost for once. And, as if sensing his gaze upon her, Suraya shifts down into the blankets he’s displaced in the movement. No conscious thought dictates how his Light responds to her, but it does: a warm, comfortable tangle that’s not quite Arc, Solar, or Void in particular. She presses herself into his embrace without so much as opening an eye or twitching in an attempt to wake. 

Today is the day. 

He smiles into her short hair, sliding his hand down her arm to loosely take her hand in his. A sluggish swipe of her fingers, aiming to soothe, convinces him to close his eyes once more. He has time, for once, to enjoy this quiet, peaceful moment. So he does.

Until the even, deep breaths of his partner lull him back to sleep.

-/

More than anything, Amanda wants to be excited for this.

And she is excited for this. For a lot of reasons.

It’s like a family gathering, but a fusion of her strange version of normal and the kind of normal she's dreamed about. She gets to spend the night at Marc’s place tonight, to celebrate the end of one year and the beginning of the other with her found family. It's a balm against the yucky feelings that come, the thoughts of people she's lost, the family that has passed on without her.

But, this time of year is just hard. She misses her parents and Cayde, and in a different way she misses Sloane. Sloane knows she struggles. And it's for that reason, as Amanda sits in the Hangar, arms crossed, waiting for this delivery Ikora insisted could not wait, that Sloane is messaging her back with nearly no delay.

Bitterly, Amanda bites back the thought of asking her why she can't just be there, if she's going to be free for most of the day. She knows Sloane takes her duty seriously, Amanda admires that about the Titans in her life.

It just sucks, sometimes. 

She scoffs loudly into the empty Hangar. Everyone in Tower Control is squirreled up in one of the offices, and of course, Amanda is the only one on the ground in the Hangar so there's not even anyone to shoot the shit with and distract her.

Just Sloane telling her that whatever Ikora needs her to receive certainly must be important.

She types back a snarky, _"She's lucky I'm not drunk off my ass on your Dawning Present, making me come down here at first light."_

Sloane's reply is a steady, insistent, _"It's nine in the morning. That's a late start."_

_"I know,"_ She keys back, grousing, _"But I either sleep til noon or I wake up at 04:00. You know me."_

The next time her tablet beeps she can hear the warm sound of the Deputy Commander's voice in her mind, a simple response. _"I know."_

Amanda tries to wrap that comforting tone around herself like a blanket, to let it ease her grumpy irritability. It works, for a bit. But the cold is bothering her leg, and without the traffic (thrusters sending jets of warm air through the half-open space) it will never warm up, and she'd really like this to be over sooner rather than later.

Luckily enough, a cargo ship docks and unloads rather quickly, its crew staying with the city swapping out with a new team headed out despite the holiday. At least she wasn't one of them, she thought, watching a broad-shouldered woman with a dark tinted visor head toward the Tower proper. One of the techs unloaded a crate - not too large, still manageable - onto her workbench.

"That the package for Ikora?" She drawls to the tech.

"Yes ma'am."

She gives him a mock salute, never quite getting with the military's formalities, even when she served. "Thank ya kindly. Now get on outta here, I'm sure y'got better places to be."

The tech nods. "Happy Dawning."

Amanda's already hefting the crate into her arms, intent on getting out of this Tower before noon. Ikora is the hurry up and wait type - _Warlocks_ \- and Amanda has places to be. "Happy Dawnin'," She calls over her shoulder, and despite the fact that she's rethinking how manageable this crate is (she's sure it's full of books now and she's not particularly thrilled about it), the sentiment is heartfelt. Genuine.

Across the Tower, however, Ikora is livid. She understands that people want to go home to their families, she's… looking forward (and she can all but feel the enthusiastic encouragement radiating from Ophiuchus at such a thought) to her plans, too. 

But!

The delivery was supposed to happen at approximately noon. They knew better, everything was on a strict timeline. Zavala and Suraya weren't due at the Kay household until around noon, and she had to keep Amanda occupied until at least one. To give everything a chance to happen naturally. To do it right, no interruptions.

And, Zavala insisted, to give Suraya a moment to process, good or bad - Ikora scoffs at that, she doesn't understand why he has it in his head that she'd even consider refusing him - all the emotions that will certainly overwhelm her.

So when Amanda drops the crate, unimpressed, at her feet at a quarter past ten in the morning, Ikora blinks in surprise before channeling her fury into sedate composure. It’s not Amanda’s fault.

"It's early."

"Yeah," Amanda barks "It's a good thing yer not busy, then," She continues, annoyed, gesturing to the Bazaar. It's empty. Even the Ramen Shop is closed. “I’m gonna go. I was originally supposed to meet Zavala and Hawthorne earlier so it works out.” She waves, not bothering to wait for a response. “See ya tonight,” She calls, turning away.

“Wait!” 

-/

Most lazy mornings, for them, are defined by the time of day alone. Suraya would take an extra hour to lay in bed - even against his advice that she should rise and get ready for the day - when he came home at dawn, or he’d force himself awake early when she came back from a civic emergency, as cool and radiant as the streaks of light that would soon become the dawn.

This is far slower than usual. Where normally he’d have her bare and panting beneath him from teasing touches, he hasn’t stopped touching her face. Fingers trail across her jaw, and while it’s not terribly erotic, the effect it has on her is beginning to bleed into exactly that.

First, however, she pulls back - it’s more like pushing her head further into the pillows - to look up at him, her own fingers finding his jaw, meeting his gaze. It’s heavy. Serious but not sad, almost dazed. “Are you okay?” She asks, her features flickering with concern.

Blinking in surprise, he nods. His fingers trail down her neck, across her sternum, the backs of his knuckles pressing ever so slightly into the warm skin above the neckline of her shirt. Over her heart.

“I love you,” She whispers, cutting through whatever thoughts are running through his head. “I’m excited to share this with you.”

His lips quirk up, showing her the slightest hint of his teeth. For a man who smiles mostly with his eyes, she cherishes these moments in which she can see his unveiled expressions in their entirety. But then, his eyes slide shut, and instead of seeing his emotions, she can very nearly feel them. The Light is funny like that, like an extension of self, molding to his will. She gasps against it, the way his hands seem to pulse - electric, expressive - and lend to his feelings. This is not the playful Arc energy he pulls out to reduce her to a sobbing mess when she’s wound up and bratty. This is pure emotion. Deep-seated, unadulterated feelings channeled into a current that translates into the hair on the back of her neck standing on end when he hauls her against him as though she is weightless, thanks to the pads of his fingers sliding down the skin beside her spine. 

She pushes up against the hand that’s covering her heart, away from the one he’s wrapped around her back and she’s kissing him back. It’s not the same as two Guardians sharing their Light in some kind of intimate feedback loop, but she hears the broken gasp, the half-buried sound in the back of his throat and it reaffirms what she knows. This is no battle for superiority. Their differences are what balance them, what brings them to even ground. He is attracted to her as she is, for her simple humanity, and the complex feelings she can inspire without showering him in the Traveler's gifts.

They take their time. After all, they have plenty of it, with only abstract plans during their well-deserved reprieve. Suraya misses the pale white blink of a notification on her tablet nearly an hour later when Zavala rises, a question in his gaze as he tilts it towards the shower. She's too busy, abandoning the sheets to follow with a grin.

The message goes unanswered.

-/

In their younger years, or at least his, Devrim thinks, stretching his back, Marc never used to get up before ten in the morning. Even when they were having a dinner party. He'd stay up until dawn preparing the night before if he had to, though he'd eventually got it down to a science (having a child does wonders for developing time management skills).

Now, Devrim reaches for the other side of the bed - such a far cry from a patched up cot in a secluded nook - to find it cool and can't help but smile to himself. The clock reads half eight. It's late for him but still early.

The hardwood floors betray the weight of his husband's footsteps. "Planning to sleep the day away, darling?" Marc asks, arms crossed as he leans in the doorway.

"You'd come wake me eventually, I'm sure," He lilts back.

Marc nods, words clearly failing him. It spurs Devrim into action, pulling back the blankets and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He doesn't bother to slide his feet into the slippers waiting for him, instead opening his arms to pull his husband in. Letting Marc rest his head on his shoulder, breathe deep to smell sleep and yesterday's cologne on the skin of his neck, Devrim exhales contentedly.

"I've missed this, Marc," He says, and it's meant to sound adoring and sweet, not emotionally compromising as if he's at the end of his rope.

But, to his credit, his husband laughs, and the rumble of his chest against Devrim's soothes him. "I know," Marc agrees. "We're going to do this more often from now on."

"Abusing your new powers already?"

"Please, I've always had some pull," He leans back, fingers cradling the scruff on Devrim's jaw. "Now," He presses a kiss to his lover's nose (as there are rules about kisses before brushing teeth), "Wash up. I'll make breakfast and put the kettle on."

-/

The word leaves Ikora's lips like a whip-crack, harsh and serious. It strikes the shipwright like lightning. She recoils, visibly, as though she’s going to be struck.

"What's wrong?"

"I-" Ophiuchus appears beside her, shell orbiting his small body in momentary concern, "I think I should bring them something, and I'm not sure what."

Amanda's eyes narrow in suspicion. "Ikora, you have a bottle of that fancy dessert wine behind you."

"It's for someone else."

"It's not. That's Marc's favorite."

Ophiuchus rolls his optic obnoxiously and Ikora gives him a scathing glare for it, as if encouraging him to do better than that.

"She's nervous about later?" Ophiuchus tries. He can feel Ikora's wrath, but the Warlock doesn't contradict him. It's not like she had any quick lies available that didn't nearly lead into the truth.

"Uh… huh," The younger woman's arms cross. She doesn't buy it, that's obvious. "What the heck is goin' on?"

"Nothing," Ikora lies, too fast and very obviously. "It's just-"

"Just?" Amanda holds out her hands as if expecting an answer to drop from the sky and into them. When it doesn't, she produces her tablet from a pocket near her bionic knee and sends out a message.

"What are you doing?" Ikora asks.

"Askin' Hawthorne what the heck is goin' on around here. Why can't-"

Ikora sends a panicked glance to Ophiuchus who dips in a nod and disappears without a sound.

"You know I can just call her-"

"No!"

Amanda shakes her head. "What's the big deal? You're acting really weird and honestly, it's kinda freakin' me out. I planned everything with them. Marc won't mind if I come by early, I'll-"

"Amanda." Saladin's deep voice is soft but commands attention. "Stop pushing her. I'll take you for brunch, we can go over together, afterward."

Amanda looks between the two of them, Warlock, Titan, then back again. "You're kidding me."

Saladin, unlike Ikora, does not betray a single emotion on his face, his eyes hard - always eased a bit when it comes to her, but she's always been treated like the Tower's collective kid. Amanda knows he isn't kidding.

But she's also not the fourteen year old girl she was when he'd distract her with ice cream or an errant wolf cub smuggled inside the walls to keep her out of trouble. Smiling far too wide, Amanda nods. Ikora catches on just as the Shipwright opens her mouth, and if Amanda were looking at her, she'd see the comical widening of her golden brown eyes.

"Okay. We can go to breakfast," She gives Ikora a challenging look before turning her beach-glass gaze upon the last Iron Lord. "But only if we invite Shaxx, too."

Ikora closes her eyes and counts to ten in three dead languages before she opens them again. Saladin is still staring Amanda down, and to her credit, Holliday hasn't budged.

"Alright," Saladin acquiesces. "We'll invite him."

She staggers backwards, in surprise. "Really?"

"Yes," He confirms gruffly. Though subdued, his aggravation is palpable. "Now go get him before I change my mind."

Scampering off, Amanda leaves the two of them to go get the Crucible Handler for what will likely be the most uncomfortable meal in history.

Saladin is eyeing her with an unreadable expression and Ikora sighs. "My attendance is mandatory, isn't it?"

"You're a sharp ally," Saladin answers.

"It's a yes, then," Ikora retorts.

After a few silent moments, Ophiuchus appears beside her, drifting in a relieved sway. "All taken care of. She was already filtering both their messages, no harm done."

"Good. We're about to go to brunch with Amanda and Saladin-"

"Oh, I cannot wait to find out what little secrets we've been keeping!" Shaxx bellows from the courtyard, disrupting some innocent pigeons roosting on the railings.

"And Shaxx?" Ophiuchus betrays both shock and concern.

His Guardian doesn't blame him. They don't have to look at Saladin to feel him scowling.

-/

Suraya lets herself in, Zavala hot on her heels. He pulls the door shut behind them while she removes her boots and jacket, hanging the latter on a hook. It's warm, the sound of the fireplace in the next room over is quaint and comfortable, and the house is wreathed in warm lights and tasteful Dawning decor.

"Dad," She calls, loud, when Marc doesn't come to the door like she expects, "We're here!"

Turning to Zavala, who doesn't appear flummoxed, she comments at a lower volume, "That's funny, he must be in the kitchen or something."

Zavala hums, non-committal, and Suraya wanders down the hall that runs parallel to the kitchen and into the heart of her family's home.

"Dad? This isn't funny," She says, pausing a beat. Still no answer. "Dad!"

The sound of footsteps at the end of the short hall stops her in her tracks.

"Do calm down, Suraya, I'm right-"

Though she has her back to him, Zavala knows the expression she's making; Can see how her shoulders rise in surprise, elbows angled out. Knows that she's clasped her hands over her chest in surprise at the sound of his voice.

Zavala knows how much she wanted this. She could blame it on the City or on him, for reawakening long-abandoned wants and needs, but he wants her to have this. She deserves to have everything.

Her lips move, words failing her for only a second, and then, far differently from before, hinging on a sob, she cries, "Dad?"

For being a self proclaimed old man, Devrim doesn't falter when she launches herself at him, grunting only at the impact of his fully-grown child tackling him in a hug that sways at the start like a dance. 

It evolves into a tighter, closer embrace, and the scant sounds of sobbing.

"Oh, don't cry, darling," Devrim tuts, rearing back to brush away her tears. It does nothing for his own state, to see her so unguarded, in a way she hasn't been with him in years. He clears his throat when he feels it constrict. "You're liable to make an old man join you."

Between shaky breaths she ducks her head, admitting, "I've just wanted this for so long," To the collar of his shirt.

Marc peeks from the kitchen, swiping a hand across his cheek to erase a tear from sight before nodding to their other guest. He slips from sight.

"Alright you two," Marc chirps, sunny and bright, the only man Devrim has ever encountered who can laugh and cry all while speaking in complete sentences. "I'm feeling left out."

Three steps is all it takes for their unit to be completed and whole for the first time in nearly two decades. It sets Suraya off anew to have both her parents embracing her without having to court fear that came with sneaking into a City that cast her out, or the anxiety that always bubbled up because she was selfishly endangering her family.

They stay that way, until a timer beeps in the kitchen and Marc scuttles off after whatever he’s preparing for the evening's events. This time tomorrow, he’ll have the kitchen on lockdown, preparing a huge feast, but tonight is a far more casual affair.

Devrim pulls back from her finally, looking at her expectantly. “How?” She asks, the initial shock finally starting to wear off.

“You know how,” Devrim answers, voice dipping lower, eyes flicking to the doorway down the hall, closer to the door that leads to a spacious living room. “I believe he meant to give us privacy.”

“He’s a good man,” Suraya whispers.

“He is.” He pats her cheek once and nods towards the way she’d came. “Perhaps you should see if he’d like a drink?” Her lips part into a smile, and he chuckles, unable to help it. “Off you go,” He says, nudging her on.

Marc creeps quietly from the kitchen. He’s waving his hands in a frantic combination of nerves and excitement, and Devrim gives him an expectant nod. A quiet shimmer happens above their heads. “The other door is cracked,” Zavala’s Ghost says, regal and elegant in her delivery, but also jittery and hyper, like a hummingbird. “Shall we?”


	12. Dawning Surprise Pt. 2

Amanda and her group of Guardians make it to the elevators before she whirls around abruptly. “Alright, you two,” She warns, hands falling to her hips. “Last chance.”

Saladin crosses his arms, fully intending to go down to some quaint little diner in the City. Beside her, Ikora is just as stoic, though her blank face isn’t nearly as good as the rugged Titan beside her. Saladin puts a furious Zavala to shame. “There’s nothing going on. We’re just going for something to eat before the festivities later.”

“They’re not answering my messages,” Shaxx says.

“Leave them alone.”

“Quiet, old man. I’m not talking to you.” The Crucible Handler turns to Ikora. “What’s this about?”

Ikora holds out her hands, annoyed. “Obviously it’s a secret.”

“So it’s Devrim,” Shaxx states deadpan.

“Devrim’s home?” Amanda looks at her. “Really? That’s it?”

Saladin looks to Ikora, reading her body language. He nods, slowly. “It was meant to give them privacy,” He says.

“I didn’t want Suraya to know anything was going on,” Ikora says. “Zavala has been planning this for a long time.”

Amanda’s face falls. No doubt she’s considering that similar considerations could have - _should_ have - been made for her partner, but she wills herself past the jealousy. If it were possible, she would have tried to swing it, Sloane had said. But there was Crimson Days or some random weekend, or literally whenever she could. Their time would come. 

“Yeah,” She agrees, trying to will the melancholy out of her tone and pull herself together. “I get it.”

“Well,” Shaxx says, with a pointed look to the other two Guardians in his mist. “Shall we?”

“Honestly, I think I’m going to go back and catch a nap before I go over to Marc and Dev’s,” Amanda decides, turning her back on them. She can feel the tears welling up against her will. “No sense in torturin’ ya if I’ve already gotten my answer.”

Ikora frowns. “Are you sure? We can go together, they don’t have to-”

“It’s fine, Ikora. I just need to-” She scoffs in frustration, shaking her head when she realizes she’s not fooling any of them. “I’ll be alright in a bit.”

Saladin hums, but it's more indulgent than before. "If you're sure."

She dips her head once, resolute, before she leaves them at the top of the elevators. She'd left in a hurry, and it wasn't a guess as to why. 

“Why would you do that?” Ikora snarls at him, with a quick glance to confirm Amanda’s out of earshot. “How tactless can you possibly be, Shaxx?”

“I’m not stupid” Shaxx says, gesturing to Ikora as if she holds all the answers. “It will be fine-”

Saladin exhales. His dark eyes are filled with disappointment. “You crushed her.”

“Oh, it will be fine.” He waves a hand at Ikora nonchalantly. “She’s got Sloane coming in.”

Ikora looks up at the sky, as if lamenting her existence for a brief moment. Then, she propositions her Ghost. “Ophiuchus, would you please see what her ETA is?”

“You’re changing the plan,” Her Ghost comments, already two steps ahead. 

She crosses her arms. “I’m only considering it,” She tells her partner.

“Suraya-”

“Will not be thinking about this, I assure you.” She steps into Shaxx’s personal space to regard him, her lean, slighter frame not intimidated by his larger one. “Infuriating me won’t get me back in the Crucible,” She reminds him in an alto that’s as deadly as it is smooth. She turns away from him in a movement that’s indicative of the poise and grace she brings to the battlefield. “I apologize for dragging you into things,” She says to the Iron Lord. “I was hoping to avoid this particular issue.”

Saladin eyes Shaxx, who doesn’t so much as flinch under the scrutiny. “Even the best-laid plans have their challenges,” The Iron Lord says sagely. “If you believe I can help, have your Ghost reach out.”

“I think I’ll be able to handle it,” Ikora answers with a dip of her head in the affirmative, “But I will.”

-/

"It's better to seek forgiveness than ask permission," Ikora says aloud to Ophiuchus, after a solid ten minutes of pacing in front of her post. 

"You're worried," He warbles. She doesn't like being told that, but his Ghost accepts his place as her guide to emotional awareness. Someone had to look out for her.

"I don't want anything to ruin this for them, especially if it's not necessary," She replies. Ophiuchus declines affirming that as worry. "I could fix all of this. It alters the plan, but-"

"You can always blame Shaxx," He supposes. "It is his fault, after all. I'm relatively sure that's what Lord Saladin would do."

Ikora waves a hand. "I know that," She snarks back. "What is her ETA again?"

"About an hour."

"Alright." She takes a deep breath. "I'm going to talk to Amanda."

"Ikora."

His Guardian turns, tilting her head in curiosity. It makes her seem younger. She has seemed that way to him lately. She might be the most intelligent person he's ever encountered, but when it comes to her feelings, she has much to learn about herself (despite how she makes every attempt to appear otherwise).

He hovers, cones spinning without a sound. "Good idea."

She nods curtly before taking to the exit. He hopes she understands what he's saying in not so many words. 

Ophiuchus turns back to the Traveler, tips his single eye up to look at this year's intricate Dawning Star. "I'm proud of you," He says to the open air when she's gone.

He doesn't imagine the answering tug, a warm shiver over the bond they share that comes in reply.

-/

Amanda does not want to answer her door. Ikora contemplates that she might actually be sleeping, but she doesn't stop the insistent knocking. Eventually it will rouse her.

Although, she hears the sound of a mug hitting the table just inside the door and realizes that Amanda definitely isn't sleeping. She just doesn't want to answer. 

"Amanda, let me in," She calls, trying not to cause a scene. Certainly other people are home during this early hour of the day, and she'd rather not draw attention to what's going on. "Please," She adds as an afterthought.

The sound of a chair scraping is followed by the tiniest click of the door being unlocked. It opens a crack. "I'm fine, Ikora."

"No, you're not," The Warlock says with authority. "May I come in?"

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. "I guess," She grouses, returning to the table and plunking herself back down on it. Aside from the small refrigerator, which is a mess of post-it notes, her small flat is clean. Which means it was done recently. Amanda's not normally so neat and tidy. She doesn't offer Ikora a drink - and Ikora doesn't ask - so that she knows Amanda isn't really thrilled she's there. "Listen," The Shipwright admits, sounding tired. "I just need to sulk a bit. I'll be fine."

"You're jealous."

Blinking, Amanda's face morphs into something ugly, a bitter smile setting into place. "A'course I'm jealous, Ikora! Ain't Zavala's fault. I know Sloane's important."

"She is," Ikora agrees. "And I understand. Not in the same way, but-"

"It's just hard," The Shipwright interjects. "I don't wanna feel this way. I was doin' good, and then-"

"Shaxx."

"Yeah."

Ikora looks down at her hands, fingers curled together, resting on the table. "If Zavala hadn't been so caught up in his planning, he might have told you in advance," She reasons. "You'll have to forgive his oversight. He didn't think it was logistically possible or he would have made arrangements, I'm sure."

"I know."

"I mean," She looks to the clock on the wall. She unfolds her hands, gesturing slightly, "There'd be a lot of things to figure out, especially since she has so many responsibilities, and she's abroad."

"Yeah. I get it, Ikora."

"It would have to be planned months in advance," She continues. "Someone would have to approve her leave, it would be-"

"Wouldja stop it?" Amanda cries. Her eyes are stormy. "I got it. I get why she can't. I just miss her, okay?"

Ikora rears back, crossing her arms. She looks almost stunned, and that's alarming to Amanda.

"I'm sorry," The younger woman whispers. "I told ya I just needed to be alone. I didn't mean-"

"I'm not very good at consoling, am I?" Ikora stretches lips, making them thin. "Well." She reaches inside her robes and pulls out an envelope, sliding it across the table. "This will have to do."

"What is it?"

"A Dawning Present." 

"You didn't have to-"

"That," Ikora admits, rising from her seat, "Was from Hawthorne."

She pulls out the papers, unfolding them as Ikora heads for the door. "It's dated for two months ago," Amanda says, looking at the stamp at the top. A sharp breath makes her seize, shocked eyes flicking up to Ikora. 

"But-"

"Zavala hadn't been able to manage because Hawthorne had already requisitioned our available resources. He couldn't find anyone because they were already in place." Ikora hums. "That's not important, though."

Amanda still stares, gobsmacked. "So-" She puts her hands to her mouth and tries to breathe. "You mean-"

"The plan," Ikora reveals, "Was that she would meet you tonight. Surprise you. We figured - not that Hawthorne knew about Devrim, but," The Warlock smiles. "We planned to keep you positive, as best we could."

Incredulous, Amanda asks, "Why are you telling me this? Why ruin the surprise?"

She shrugs, a tiny hint of a grin curving her lips upward. "Well, I figured it might cheer you up to be the one doing the surprising."

-/

He turns around the moment he hears her come into the room, hands coming together behind his back, left hand fitted into the palm of his right. He swallows hard, then meets her eyes.

Her cheeks are flushed pink from crying, but her eyes are bright. Radiant, he thinks. She wipes away errant moisture from them with a shaky little laugh before crossing the distance between them.

"Thank you," She says, and he's not sure he's ever felt the words have more meaning. Her eyes search his. He cannot look away. "This really is the best Dawning ever," She says. "Nothing could top this."

The smile doesn't leave his face when his eyes close into the kiss she presses against his lips. "I am glad you think so," He rumbles. "I know we agreed not to do gifts, but… I wanted to do it right."

"You did. I just…" Her brows furrow, "Wish there was something I could do for you."

He feels his chest tighten. This was the place. The opening in the conversation. He takes her left hand with his right. "You already have," He intones softly, just above a whisper. Her smile widens, and it's beautiful. Breathtakingly unrestrained.

"Hardly," She laughs. "I barely did any of the work."

"Well," He muses, feeling the jitter of nerves hit him full-force. It feels like his heart could fly right out of his chest. "If that's how you feel, then perhaps," Confusion crosses her features when he inhales sharply to diffuse some of the nerves but he presses on, his left hand coming around to his side, "Perhaps I could ask for something."

The breath in her lungs abandons her when he dips down, one knee touching the floor. He'd abandoned the box earlier (it sits innocently atop the mantle in the same place as it had been left for him last night). Only the top arch of the ring and it’s crystalline stone peeks through his fingers.

"What are you doing?" She asks, lip trembling. "Zavala." He squeezes her fingers, and she can see the sheen in his eyes, the crossover between anxiety and nerves, but more than that, the conviction. He means it. This is not a drill.

"You know what I'm doing," He says, when her lips move to form the question again. "Suraya Hawth-"

" _This_ is what you want for the Dawning?" She blurts.

"No," He looks up at her as if she is the Sun and he is blessed to orbit around her. His thumb brushes over the knuckles of her hand, the ring still held in earnest between them. "This is what I want, always."

She does cry at that: two rebellious tears make a break for it. It's hard not to; He leads by example. Words mean something to him.

"Okay," She says, sniffling as she nods.

"Okay?" He looks around pointedly, as if to make sure there's nothing else that might delay things further.

"Yeah." Nodding, more tears escaping, she smiles. He returns it as she exhales, fanning her face with her free hand before focusing. "Okay. I'm ready."

She watches him look down to their joined hands: pale blue and sunkissed brown, like Earth and sky, night and day. For a man so old, he is so pure. Innocent, in a way. Human, Suraya realizes, squeezing his hand. He returns it, "Suraya, you have taught me so much. About our people. About hope," He continues. "About myself. Simply by being who you are."

Her lip trembles again.

“I look forward to being with you. Even the most insignificant moments we share are precious to me. I’ve lived a long time. Too long, perhaps. But no one - past, present, or future - will ever come close to you. I love you more every single day.”

“That was a good speech,” She whispers.

He chuckles. “That wasn’t what I planned,” He admits. “I had one prepared, but-” He shrugs. It’s more of a testament to his nerves than anything.

“It was great,” She admits. “I mean look at me,” She gestures to her face and the fact that she’s actively crying. “I’m a mess.”

“In my eyes, you are the most beautiful woman in the system.” Zavala pauses, and she knows what comes next. She can’t help but smile in disbelief anyway. “Suraya Hawthorne, will you marry me?”

“Yes,” She gasps, sharply, flashing her teeth as they worry her lower lip. She doesn’t have to think about it, really.

She’s giddy, laughing in the seconds that follow, as he slides the ring on her finger. It’s a perfect fit. She looks down it for a heartbeat before hauling him the rest of the way up to standing, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing the living daylight out of him.

It occurs to her, midway through, to pull back. “How is this a Dawning present for you? You literally got me a ring.”

“This was precisely what I wanted.” He kisses her nose before she tucks her head against his shoulder, relishing the quiet, tight embrace. “I was hoping you’d say yes. We didn’t exactly talk about this, but I didn’t know how to ask without… asking.”

“Yeah,” Suraya agrees. “I’m glad you did,” She says, holding out her hand to examine the ring on it. “Ask me,” She elaborates.

“As am I.” He takes both her hands in his, fingers finding the band, pulling it up between them. “I didn’t want it to be too much, but-”

“It’s beautiful. Not anything I’d ever expect, but,” She waves her hand around, admiring the glint of the perfectly round stone and can’t help but smile. “It’s perfect. You did such a good job. Honestly, how did you get them not to come check on us?”

“They’re definitely spying,” He murmurs. “The door to the dining room is ajar.”

“They knew.” He nods. “You asked them?”

“Was I not supposed to?” He replies, concerned.

Suraya lets out some disgruntled - but not angry sound. Her left hand finds its way to Zavala’s chest in an affirming gesture before she turns to face the door on the other side of the room. “Alright you guys, quit eavesdropping and get in here.”

To her surprise, it isn’t Marc who comes barreling in, but Devrim who parts from a teary Marc. “He just needs a moment. Happy tears, I assure you.”

“That was so beautiful,” Marc warbles from the now-open door, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief likely stolen from Devrim’s pocket. Above him, Zavala’s Ghost hovers with quietly, but there’s something fond in the way her optic finds her Guardian and dips in a pleased sort of curtsey.

Zavala’s goes from having one arm around Suraya to withdrawing it in order to shake Devrim’s outstretched hand. “Congratulations, the both of you,” He says, clearing his throat in a way that betrays his own emotional state. He leans into the gesture, patting the new, more official addition to the family on the back. The militiaman’s sky blue eyes are sharp yet sincere. “Well done.”

“Thank you for the pointers,” Zavala returns. 

“Traveler take me, you gave him pointers?” Marc gushes, tears forgotten. He thumps his husband on the back. “And you didn’t tell me?”

Devrim nods to Suraya, his happiness apparent. She licks her lips before turning to Marc. “Want to see the ring?”

“DO I WANT TO SEE THE RING?” Marc all but shrieks, laughing as he yanks his daughter’s hand away from her side. “Give me your hand.”

“I thought he would have peeked,” Zavala murmurs to Devrim, the two of them stepping back to let Marc fawn properly over her.

“Ikora might have advised against it,” Devrim comments dryly. "She's a touch intimidating and we didn't want to ruin the surprise."

Suraya turns back to look at them, only to jerk when Marc grabs her hand for closer - less fidgety - inspection. “Get used to this, kid,” He tells her, dragging her back into the conversation and arching her fingers as to better examine the glint of the diamond. “Everyone who comes through here will be all over this hand. You’re an engaged woman now.”

“This is surreal.” She looks around, gaze landing on her now fiance - how weird, but in a good way, she hasn’t completely processed it yet - and his Ghost. Prying her hand from her father’s (she’s certain he’ll be dragging her around by it throughout the rest of the festivities), she approaches the floating bot.

“Congratulations,” The tiny being says. “I’ve known for a while. I’m glad you agreed.”

“How could I not?” Of all those in the room, this is the one that does not need any explanation - well, it’s hardly likely any of them do. But the Ghost knows far better than most why she wouldn’t refuse Zavala’s proposal. She’s the most privy to their relationship, considering her own unique bond with him.

“Yeah,” She supposes, looking up to her Guardian. “We sure know how to pick them, huh?”


	13. Chapter 13

“Well,” Suraya supposes, looking at the crates in the cellar, “I guess I know why we have so much champagne now.”

“Do you think it will be enough?” Marc asks, squeaking every so often when the dim light manages to catch on her rock. She flicks her hand dramatically on purpose and Marc claps, he’s so excited. “Listen, kiddo, the second - and I mean THE SECOND this holiday is over, we are planning the most amazing event this City as ever seen.”

“Dad,” She deadpans, “I’ve been engaged for about forty-five minutes. You’ve got time.”

“I know. I’m just so happy for you.” Suraya looks worried he might devolve into tears, but he simply pats her shoulders. “I’m just happy you get to have this. I know things were-”

“Yeah,” She agrees, setting the crate she’d been about to lift back onto a shelf. Marc hugs her, tightly. She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, continuing thickly, “I’m happy, too.”

“Ugh. Okay. No more of this. We’re going to happy cry with Amanda enough as it is.” He settles things with a resolute gaze. “I’ll grab the good champagne from the fridge down here, you grab this crate and bring it up for when everyone else arrives. I’ll make sure we have plenty in the fridge down here as backup.” He taps her nose affectionately, watching as she scrunches it, flushing. He hasn’t done that since she was a child, though, so instead of her usual grunt of embarrassment she can't help but smile, albeit reluctantly. “Tonight, we celebrate.”

Ikora is brushing snow off her robes when Suraya comes up the stairs to the main floor. Ophiuchus appears beside her, looking rather expectantly in Suraya's direction. Taking a quick detour through the kitchen to drop the wine on the counter, she heads to the front door.

Zavala is elsewhere, likely with Devrim in his study. She won't be surprised if they begin trading classics, her father's literature collection has been passed down for generations. It's legendary.

"I hope you don't mind that I let myself in," She says, handing Suraya the wine she'd brought.

"No, not at all. Can I get you a drink?"

"Absolutely."

"Wait,” A quieter voice comes after Suraya has given them her back, heading into the kitchen. “Are we not going to ask? He did it, right?”

The Warlock holds up a hand to quiet him. 

“I would have thought Zavala’s told him the second it was done,” Hawthorne comments idly, placing Ikora’s bottle beside another to chill. Facing them once more, she nods to Ophiuchus, who still looks at her rather optimistically for confirmation. “Guess not. You two knew about it?”

“I held onto the ring for a month so you wouldn’t find it by accident.” Ikora doesn’t shrug, but her weight shifts ever so slightly to her right. It makes the same statement. “Zavala was…” She tips her head, “Concerned.”

“He’s always concerned,” Suraya answers. “You know.”

“I do.” She raises her eyebrows. “So?”

“So,” The Clan Overseer smiles, ducking her head. “Obviously you know that he-”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I said?” She tries, sheepish.

Marc scoffs from the other entrance to the kitchen. “ _That_ was the line you went with?” He brushes past her to greet Ikora, setting the bottle of champagne he’d brought up with him on the counter. “Oh, give me this,” He says, yanking Suraya’s hand up to chin-level. “Of course she said yes.”

“Dad!”

“Hush,” He admonishes her before addressing Ikora. “He did great,” Marc confirms. “Little nervous, but it was-” He looks up, eyelids fluttering. “I could cry thinking about it.”

Ikora smiles. “Good.” She takes Suraya’s hand, prying it gently from Marc’s to inspect the ring. “He has good taste.”

“It’s really nice, yeah?” Suraya gestures to the ring with her other hand.

“I meant his choice in a partner,” She retorts, golden brown eyes lifting from the diamond to meet Suraya’s. Warmly, she says, “Congratulations.”

It elicits a bashful laugh. “Wow,” Suraya gushes, stunned at the praise. “Thank you.”

“Take good care of him.” 

The implication goes unsaid, but Suraya takes it seriously. “I will.”

“I know you will.” Ikora’s lips curve deviously. “Where is he, anyway?”

“I’ll go get them,” Marc offers, spinning on his heel. “You two pop the bubbly.”

When they're alone, Ikora murmurs, "I had to change the plan."

"Obviously," Suraya says, though it's clear it hadn't been on her mind at all, because she blinks in confusion as if just remembering how things were to go. Ophiuchus feels the naggling sensation of Ikora being right through their connection though the Warlock doesn't display it obviously in her body language. "Where's Amanda?"

"There was a snag," The Warlock crosses her arms. "Shaxx nearly ruined everything. I salvaged it as best I could."

"Insensitive?" Suraya pops open the champagne.

"To say the least."

"Well, we knew there'd be a wrench thrown in there somewhere," Hawthorne comments. "I feel bad that she wasn't surprised, though."

"She was. Not as much as she would have been, considering she was too busy yelling at me beforehand, but," Ikora's eyes narrow in thought, not focusing on anything physical. She blinks, and the trance is broken. "She's grateful. There were tears."

"Sorry you had to handle it on your own," Hawthorne answers, pouring her some champagne. "You got hit with the brunt of the secret-keeping, didn't you?"

"A bit," She says wryly. "It's nice to know I can finally relax without worrying about the logistics."

"Well, for what it's worth, I appreciate it. I was really surprised."

The cordiality on Ikora's face softens into something kinder. She takes a sip of her champagne. "Good."

-/

Amanda flings open the door, Sloane trailing behind. She doesn't knock; Marc had yelled at her for it exactly once (she was to make herself at home) and frankly, Amanda can appreciate that kind of familiarity. She only lets go of Sloane's hand long enough to take her boots off, toeing them off in an easy way that still surprises her partner considering one leg is synthweave and alloy plating. 

She grins up at her partner when her Ghost appears to quietly wisk their footwear away. It's not novel in the sense that a Ghost is transmatting her things; Zavala's used to do that when she was much younger and she works with Guardians every day. It's the familiarity that warms her. Being lumped in with Sloane - who is here, with her (IN PERSON!!) - just gives her the warm and fuzzies on the inside.

Sloane's presence doesn't loom over her, necessarily, but she is a good head taller and twice as wide with them shoulders of hers. Amanda can feel her breath on the back of her neck, an inhale that's a bit too long, and she knows for sure that Sloane is the most deserving of this holiday than any of them.

"Smells good, right?"

"Yeah," Sloane answers, taking it all in. "Very."

"Don't be shy about eatin'. Marc cooks a ton of food. He knows what a Titan's appetite is like." She grins. "'Sides, tomorrow's the big feast. This is just tapas 'n whatnot."

"Fancy lingo, Flygirl," She murmurs back, pressing her lips against Amanda's head, just behind her ear.

"It's about time you two made it," Ikora says, playfully, slipping out of the kitchen. Behind her, there's the sound of someone removing things from an oven, setting something up in the counter. "We were beginning to wonder if you got lost."

Laughing, Amanda steps away from Sloane to hug Ikora. She's done a lot of that today, considering, but the Warlock seems to accept it a lot less stiltedly than she had earlier. Though, considering the half-full glass of wine in her hand, perhaps she's loosened up a bit.

Devrim rounds the corner next, and Sloane lets Amanda drag her towards him. "I'm so happy you're here," The Shipwright gushes. The militiaman lifts her just a touch, returning her bearhug just as tightly.

"I'm just as happy to be here, I assure you." His bright blue eyes meet Sloane's when he looks up. "Ah, Deputy Commander."

"Just Sloane is fine," She replies, shaking his hand. "Thank you for having me."

"It's our pleasure. My husband and I have always enjoyed entertaining. This time of year is best shared with the ones we love, hmm?"

"You're right about that," Sloane agrees, while Amanda hums in similar approval. 

"Do come in, though," Devrim gestures to the living room Ikora's gone into. "Marc will be out shortly to dote on you both, I'm sure." Amanda laughs at that - Sloane has no idea what she's in for - as he continues, "I'll get you both a drink if that's alright?"

"Please," They answer in unison, looking to each other with a laugh.

"Will do. Make yourselves at home." He pats Sloane's shoulder as he goes the opposite way from Ikora. The Deputy Commander lets Amanda drag her the other way, into the living room.

It's not quite a hug, nor is it simply a handshake Sloane shares with Zavala. Not that she can think about the gesture, because the cool blue of his eyes is cut by Amanda screaming chaotically in thankfulness as she tackles Hawthorne beside him.

She hugs Amanda back fiercely, and if Amanda cries a little, the Clan Stewardess doesn't look bothered. 

"Nice to see you," Sloane greets her, when Amanda finally steps back, wanting to hug Zavala next. "Sorry your plan went to hell."

"Worked out just fine." Like Devrim, she shakes Sloane's hand. "I'm just glad you got here."

"Me too. It's nice to finally meet you."

"Likewise." She nods toward the rest of the furniture surrounding the fireplace. "I'm sure one of my dads or this one," She motions to Amanda, "Told you, but make yourself at home, okay? Seriously." She rejoins Zavala, letting him pull her down and against him as if to make more sitting room beside her on the oversized sectional.

"Weird, isn't it?" Amanda whispers, dropping beside Suraya and indicating for Sloane to join her. "You'll get used to it."

Devrim appears with champagne - and an extra beer for Sloane, before resuming his position in the armchair. "I was told you might need some extra fortification. And that this was your favorite."

"It is," Sloane agrees, "Though my tolerance isn't what it used to be," She jokes. Amanda nudges up against her side.

"Well," Devrim shrugs, helping himself to his own refreshment, "You'll find you're in good company here. And that you're welcome to overindulge. We're celebrating, after all. No one will fault you."

"Didn't think we'd jump right to the champagne, honestly," Amanda comments dryly. Doesn't stop her from clinking her glass against Sloane's and draining half of it in one go.

"Nothing wrong with celebrating," Zavala intones coolly. His hand covers Suraya's, squeezing once before he rises, waving Devrim off before he can get to his feet. "I've got it," He informs the other man. "You've more than earned yourself some downtime."

"That almost sounded like an order," Ikora muses, that sarcastic edge to her voice. "You might want to-"

"Oh, don't tease him," Marc yells from the kitchen, as if he can see the wide-eyed embarrassment flit across Zavala's face. "He knows his way around." The sound of another bottle of bubbly being popped cuts through the ambient sounds of cooking on the other side of the house. "Take the bottle back with you," Marc says, pushing him out of the kitchen, hot on his heels. "Amanda!"

"Bout time y'came out here to see me!" She launches herself up to standing, accepting the kiss that comes with Marc's hug. She turns to Sloane, who rises beside her to greet their other host, "An' this-"

"Amanda, she is even more beautiful in person! Look at her!" Suraya snorts at Sloane's bashful confusion. "She's gorgeous, built, and that smile, oh." Amanda can't help but beam. "Great taste." 

"You're too kind," Sloane says, rubbing the back of her head. "I'm the lucky one, really."

"Modest and charismatic, too," He comments, opening his arms before Sloane can extend a hand to him. "Darling, come here and hug me. Don't let these two-" He gestures to his husband and child respectively, "Fool you. We're a hugging household."

Sloane is surprised, but hugs the smaller man, laughing when he whispers that she can put her back into it.

"Girl, I see it," Marc comments to Amanda when they part. "I totally see it." That, combined with Marc's teasing once-over has Sloane blushing.

"Alright, let the woman rest, Marc. She's had a long trip and she doesn't need you heckling her."

"Darling," Marc quips, hazel eyes narrowing, as his tone takes a playful turn. "Are you jealous?"

"Hardly." Devrim's smirk is wry. "He's all bluster, I assure you. I'd be rolling my eyes if I wasn't so terribly fond of him and his antics. Speaking of," He yanks his husband down so that he can whisper in Marc's ear. Marc squeals, clapping once.

"Okay, okay," Marc agrees, taking the opportunity to lean in for a kiss. "You taste like expensive brandy." He licks his lips, taking a sip from Devrim's glass. "Remind me to have some of this later, when we're out of bubbly. It's good."

"You're funny, Marc. By the time we're out of champagne, you don't know the difference."

"You're sorely underestimating this group," Ikora interjects. 

"I don't know how Shaxx does it," Zavala comments, "But I've seen him upend a pub and wake up the next morning like he's had a night in."

"Must be nice," Amanda grumbles. "I'll be nursin' coffee until dinner tomorrow if I get smashed t'night."

Marc waves a hand. "I have enough espresso in that kitchen," He jerks a thumb toward it, To power this City for at least a week."

-/

Shaxx and Saladin don't arrive until later. The skies have begun to darken outside with the coming night, though it's only mid-afternoon. Surprisingly, they are not arguing. Shaxx almost appears cowed.

In fact, he certainly is when he lays eyes on Sloane and she tilts her head in a silent question, as if to ask if he's going to man up and apologize for upsetting her partner. Before he can, Amanda, decidedly gracious - and in a much better mood - yanks him into a hug and tells him he's an idiot, but a lucky one, since Ikora saved the day. 

Suraya and Zavala are in the kitchen, Shaxx had breezed by them without so much as a word, blustering into the parlour. Saladin, however, did not, following Shaxx in hesitantly as they did not knock (even if it would be for the best as Shaxx doesn't always do gentle well with inanimate objects) and waiting to be beckoner further. He's met with Marc, who introduces himself without the flare he normally exudes and gestures behind him, as if already sensing the Iron Lord's concern.

"They're in the kitchen. I think they wanted to give you the news without everyone around. Amanda still hasn't cottoned on."

"Really?" The old wolf takes a second to look over at the festivities. It appears everyone is enjoying themselves, even with the addition of Shaxx and his brand of loud nonsense. "Surprising."

"I'll say," Marc replies, amused. "My daughter is not particularly subtle. I'd imagine since Sloane hasn't reacted either that they're too busy making puppy-dog eyes at each other to pay attention to the goings on around them."

"Of course." Not that it's undeserving, Sloane works hard and plays hard, she's a Titan through and through. And Amanda, of course, has always been dear to Saladin, since she'd been a third of her size and taken under Zavala's metaphorical wing.

Saladin would never admit to having a bias, but with Shaxx as he was, it made favoring his younger protege far easier. With Marc's blessing, he allows himself to linger in the doorway leading to the kitchen. 

It isn't Zavala that sees him first. Suraya nudges him with a hip, and he turns away from whatever he'd been eating over the counter. 

Their collective staring contest lasts all of two seconds.

"Well?" He barks, sounding abrasive out of context.

They look to each other and he sees it: the small, shared smile. Not smug or haughty, it's simply an awed look, as if neither of them can quite believe it's happened.

"I asked," Zavala informs him, "And Suraya accepted."

"Congratulations," He replies, the smile in his tone also lifting the corners of his lips in the real thing. When he holds out his hands, Suraya steps into his embrace. Taller, but just as solid as her fiance, Saladin's version of a hug smells like a campfire and winter winds. It lasts for a moment longer than she's expecting, but in a way it almost feels like a rite of passage. 

When he pulls Zavala in, it's with a palm on the back of his neck, and something whispered in that molten rumble that Suraya cannot quite hear even in close quarters. That doesn't matter, though. She can see her partner relax into it and nod, knows that whatever has been said, it's heartfelt and meant for him only.

“There’s a whole lotta huggin’ goin’ on in there,” Amanda drawls from outside the kitchen. She pads in and helps herself to one of the myriad appetizers sprawled out: a little roll-up filled with steamed cabbage and carrots with a sweet-chili sauce. She licks some of the runny sauce off her fingers before she asks them, “We havin’ a moment or…”

Sloane's hushed voice cuts through the silence that follows her partner in, also in the market for appetizers. “Wait," She pauses, leaning against the doorway, stunned. "How long have you two been engaged?"

“What?” Amanda turns to her partner. "They're not-" She looks back, seeing Hawthorne's bashful but excited nodding, Zavala's radiant, confident smile.

"Two, maybe three hours now?" Suraya looks to Zavala. "It must have been-"

"I've been sitting next to you for an _hour_ and you just _forgot_ to tell me you're ENGAGED?!"

"I'll get more champagne," Zavala sighs, turning away, but a lightning-fast grab by Amanda returns him to his previous position.

"Oh no you don't. You're not going anywhere."

"I was only going to the refrigerator," Zavala gestures to the appliance, half a meter away. 

"No."

"Okay?"

"Shaxx," Amanda calls over her shoulder. "Get in here."

To the music of thundering steps, Suraya says," We were wondering how long it would take," Her mezzoalto voice dipping in concern. "It wasn't like we were hiding it, I waved this thing," She holds up her hand, "In front of like twice."

"Yeah, I know." Amanda's expression is unreadable, looking to the doorway.

"Wait, what?"

Suraya's confused question is cut short by Shaxx's interruption.

"Oh, bollocks."

The blonde grins. "Pay up."

"You had a bet?" Zavala looks down at her incredulously. "Seriously?"

Laughing, she retorts, "We made this waaay back. You're obvious."

Shaxx growls, "You couldn't have waited for Crimson Days?"

Zavala's reply is resolute. "No."

"Eva was convinced it would happen in the spring," Holliday elaborates, whirling around on the Crucible Handler. "So don't you tell her she's lost. Let these two-" Her hand drops to her side and she spins back in a child-like, dizzying movement, "The hell am I thinkin'." She tackles them in a brief but intense hug, Zavala's hand on Hawthorne's back keeping them from backing into the cabinets. "I'm so happy," She tells them, when she steps back, eyes misty and bright. "Damn champagne shoulda tipped me off." She shrugs, composing herself. "Besides, Sloane’s the more observational one of us, anyway"

"I'm still trying to take it all in, Amanda, you can't put this on me," Sloane holds up her hands, hasty. "I mean- Wow, congratulations," She gestures towards the couple. "I'm just-"

"Me too," Suraya agrees. Sloane is certainly not the only one who is a bit overwhelmed by the day's events. Zavala kisses her temple, and it's as overt as they've ever really been about PDA in the presence of others. So of course, Shaxx erupts in a mocking coo, and Saladin takes joy in dragging him from the room without giving him any liquor.

Zavala takes pity on him and brings him his own bottle of champagne. Shaxx makes a show of throwing back the entire bottle in one go, bubbles be damned, earning both of them Saladin's disapproval and Marc's utter fascination. Suraya perches herself between her parents and watches the chaos unfurl.


End file.
